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BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 


A NEW AND FASCINATINQ NOVEL, 

RICHARD VANDERMARCK. 

1 VoL. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. 


ALSO, NEW EDITIONS, UNIFORM IN STYLE AND PRICE, 

Each 1 Vol. 12mo, $1.50 per Vol., 


RUTLEDGE. 

THE SUTHERLANDS. 
ST. PHILIPS. 


FRANK WARRINGTON. 
LOUIE’S LAST TERM. 
ROUNDHEARTS, 


A ROSARY FOR LENT. 


V77 fi 


ST. PHILIP'S. 


■ ru>> ^ (W/x >< - ' ^ 

• » 

BY THE AUTHOR OF 

“RUTLEDGE,” “FRANK WARRINGTON,” “THE SUTHERLANDS,” ETC., ETC. 


N 


) _ > 

NEW YORK : 

CHARLES SCRIBNER & COMPANY, 

654 BROADWAY. 

1871. 


TZ3 


Ektkrkd according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by 
GEO. W. CARLETOX, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the'United States for the Southern District 

of New York. 


Entkrkd according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
SIDNEY S, HARRIS, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


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To 

JVl Y 2D K ^ R- IVI o T H E R 


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^Ijis $ooIi 

REFLECTS HER PURE EXAMPLE AND UNWORLDLY COUNSELS*, 
WHATEVER HER JUST TASTE DOES NOT CONDEMN, 

AND HER 


CLEAR MIND REJECT AS WORTHLESS 


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CONTENTS. 

o 

PAOI 

Chapter I. — The Parsonage, ..... 9 

Chapter II. — A Vow, 14 

Chapter III. — A Stranger, 22 

Chapter IV. — The Rector, 29 

Chapter V. — Dr. Catherwood, 38 

Chapter VI. — Early Summer, 43 

Chapter VII. — In the Nursery, •. 50 

Chapter VIII. — A Sound of Revelry by Night,, . . 55 

Chapter IX. — The Clybournes. .... .64 

Chapter X. — Christine’s Benefactress, ... - 71 

Chapter XI. — The Miller’s Family, 76 

Chapter XII. — The Rector’s Resignation, .... 82 

Chapter XIII. — Dr. Upham’s Successor, .... 86 

Chapter XIV. — St. Philip’s in New Hands, ... 91 

Chapter XV. — Five Minutes too Long at the Garden 

Gate, 98 

Chapter XVI. — The Fair, 104 

Chapter XVII. — The End of Harry’s Holiday, . .114 

Chapter XVIII. — Mr. Brockhulst Forgets to Tell his 

Beads, 119 

Chapter XIX. — Valse a Deux Temps, . . . .124 

Chapter XX. — A Vigil, 132 

Chapter XXI. — A Few Minutes’ Quiet Talk about Julian, 140 

Chapter XXII. — A Danger Averted, .... 149 

Chapter XXIII. — A Moment of Temptation, . . .161 

Chapter XXIV. — A Rough Experience, . . , .166 

Chapter XXV.— Eavssdropping, 181 


V'lll 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter XXVI.— No Service at St. Philip’s, . 

Chapter XXVII. — Old Hundred, .... 
Chapter XXVIII. — The End of the Summer's Campaign, 
Chapter XXIX. — Another Change, .... 
Chapter XXX. — Phcebe Giimore’s Eemorse, 

Chapter XXXI. — The Ordeal, 

Chapter XXXII. — Helena’s Work, . . . . , 
"Chapter XXXIII. — Only a Month, . . . . , 
Chapter XXXIV. — Madeline and Christine, 

Chapter XXXV. — “Wooed and Married and a’,” . 

Chapter XXXVI. — Suspicions, 

Chapter XXXVII. — Harry does not come Home, . 
Chapter XXXVIII. — By Julian’s Bedside, 

Chapter XXXIX. — A Robbery, 

Chapter XL. — De Profundis, 

Chapter XLI. — Madeline Snaps the Chains, 

Chapter XLII. — Two Years Later, 

Chapter XLIII. — Midnight in Harry’s Old Home, . 

Chapter XLIV. — A Death-Bed, 

Chapter XLV. — Dust to Dust, 

Chapter XLVI. — A Letter, 

Chapter XLVII. — A June Twilight, . . • , , 


PAOH 

191 

196 

203 

208 

214 

227 

240 

244 

251 

262 

268 

279 

284 

289 

294 

298 

303 

313 

319 

325 

330 

337 


ST. PHILIP’S. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE PARSONAGE. 

“ Somewhat back from the village street, 

Stands the old-fashioned country seat ; 

Across its antique portico 

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw.” 

The knocker was muffled on Dr. XJpham’s door; the windows 
of the second story were all closed tight against the light of 
the dim and hazy autumn afternoon ; the hall, the parlor, the 
dining-room, the Doctor’s study, were all vacant; the servants, 
in their end of the house, went through their work cautiously, 
and talked in lowered tones; occasionally, from the further end 
of the garden, there came the shout of a child at play — and 
then the sharp, low reprimand of the attendant charged with 
the business of keeping him as far away from the house and as 
quiet as he could be kept. 

lie w'as a small, delicately-made child, with yellow curls 
down to his waist; and his nurse was a dull, discontented-look- 
ing German woman, who knit, and scolded, and scowled, at 
one and the same time. The boy shouted, laughed, swung 
himself from round to round of the arbor that supported the 
old grape-vine, showered the dead leaves and the ripe fruit on 
his nurse’s head, gambolled with the dog, pelted and scared 
the pigeons on the caves — quite careless of the fact that in the 
house, in a very dark and silent room up stairs, his mother lay 
dying — agonizing with the thought of leaving him. 

1 * 


10 


THE PARSONAGE. 


His grandfather, pacing slowly up and down the chamber 
where his wife had died fourteen years before, on just such a 
still, close autumn day as this, lifted the sash and looked out 
once and again at the child with a thought of checking the 
mirth that grated so upon him ; but each time, with a sigh, he 
had turned away and left the boy to enjoy his little day, for 
his heart was mellowed by sixty years of life — forty years of 
ministry among the suffering and dying — experience of a thou 
sand pains, and memories of a thousand lost delights. 

Presently a young girl came out from the house, paused 
half way down the path, called “Julian” almost in a whisper, 
watched his wild play for a moment, and, with an expression of 
acute pain upon her features, turned away, unable to tell him 
what she thought he ought to know. 

This was Christine, the clergyman’s youngest daughter, sis- 
ter to her who lay dying in the house. These two were all 
that were left to the old man of his many sons and daughters, 
born to him in this very house; Helena, the eldest, whose 
moments with him were now numbered, and Christina, the 
youngest, whose coming had cost her mother’s life. Between 
“ Helena” and “Christina,” in the family bible, there was a list 
of names with corresponding record on a row of little graves in 
the churchyard that adjoined the garden. Christina had 
grown up to fourteen years, a lonely, dreamy child, feeling that 
her playmates were in heaven, and her mother somewhere in 
the air about her. Her father always looked at her with a 
sigh; she knew her mother went when she came, and she lived 
an unreal, unchildlike life amid the vacant places of her vanished 
comrades. 

Dr. Upham loved his little daughter, but not as he had loved 
the first who had come to bless his early happy home. That 
was human love, eager and fond; this was the calm tenderness 
of spirit watching spirit. He loved her, perhaps, as her mother 
somewhere in the air about her, loved her; he had schooled 


THE PARSONAGE. 


11 


himself to feel she would soon go as all the rest had gone; he 
was a sad, almost an old man, incapable of strong new feeling 
when she came to him ; the strength and glory of his day were 
gone, it would be henceforth 

“ The glimmer of twilight, 

I Never glad, confident morning again.” 

And so with all his tenderness and benevolence he was but a 
poor companion to the little girl, hungry fora living sympathy 

The eldest daughter, little Julian’s mother, had been since 
her marriage almost as dead to him as his sons and dauo-hters 
lying “ under the long grass of years,” in the calm churchyard 
beyond the garden wall. Ten years before, when Christine was 
almost a baby, this sister, then in the early bloom of very 
brilliant beauty, had mariied in a rash, inconsiderate way, and 
gone abroad to live. She had always been her father’s darling, 
but was a wilful and unsatisfactory child, missing a mother’s 
guidance, and by no means fulfilling her duty to him or to her 
little sister. She was very young, entirely uncontrolled, her 
beauty was dazzling, her temper uncertain, her mind unform- 
ed ; many people said it was a thing for her family and the 
parish to be thankful for, when she married respectably and 
went away to live. 

Little was heard of her for the first five years of her married 
life ; then came dark rumors of domestic troubles, separation 
from her husband, a lajvsuit, contention for the guardianship 
of the child, pecuniary difficulties ; and finally, total silence. 

About a month before the hazy autumn afternoon on which 
this story opens, there bad arrived at the Parsonage a broken- 
spirited, haggard-looking woman, bearing dim traces of former 
beauty, a wild and petulant boy, and a strange-eyed foreign 
nurse. Helena had come home to die ; she had helped to 
break her fathei-’s heart, but it yearned over her with the fond- 
est love, and he paced up and down the room next hers, wait 


12 


THE PARSONAGtE. 


ing with deep anguish for the tidings from within that he feared 
ea( h moment now would bring. 

Christine, leaning against the half-open window in the hall, 
looked at him timidly, but dared not go to him. She was ter. 
rifled at the great mystery approaching; she longed to have 
some one speak to her, but she dared not speak to any one. 
She was awed as much by the silence of the house, the grave 
looks of those around, the newness of the thoughts suggested, 
as by the fear of separation from one who had never been 
much more than an idea to her. It was the chill of death in 
the air, the grazing of the mysterious against the common- 
place, the known against the unknown, more than the thought 
of parting from her sister, that was frightening her. 

All day she had been in a kind of dream, afraid to think of 
the dark room from which she was excluded, yet afraid to turn 
her thoughts to ordinary things. She read long cliapters in the 
Bible, she said long prayers in a chilled and frightened whis- 
per, listening all the time with a dreadful choking in her throat 
for a footstep or a word in the hall outside. She felt as if she 
were in church where some solemn service in an unknown 
tongue was being celebrated, of which she could see the awe in 
the faces of those who understood. Her eyes were full of fear, 
lier thin cheeks were white, her hands cold and weak, but her 
father did not see ; he had but one child in his heart then, and 
she lay shivering in the grasp of death. 

presently the door of the sick room opened, and a grave- 
looking man came out. lie glanced up and down the hall, and 
caught a glimpse of Christine, starting out of sight. He beckoned 
to her, l»king at his watch. 

“Your sister has asked for you,” he said. “You can 
go in.” She gave such a frightened start, that he added 
kindly : 

“ There is no immediate danger ; the nurse will be within 
call, though she wishes to see you alone. A word will bring 


THE PARSONAGE. 


!3 


her in if* there should be any danger; and I shall remain here 
till the last.” 

The last ! A chill crept through the child’s veins as she went 
towards the dopr, stopping with her hand upon the latch, sick 
and faint with terror. 


M 


A VOW. 


CHAPTER • 11. 

A VOW. 

“ Why should her fleeting day-dreams fade unspoken, 

Like dafifodils that die with sheaths unbroken ? 

Had the world nothing she might live to care for, 

No second self to say her evening prayer for ? 

UOLMBS. 

The room into which the little girl was admitted was so dim 
that at first she could distinguish nothing but the tall bed from 
which the white curtains were swept back, and the dark figure 
of the nurse moving about in the obscurity. It was the spare- 
room of the Parsonage, one in which she was not much at 
home, but the arrangement of the furniture had been altered, and 
everything seemed strange and unfamiliar. There was a table 
with a white cover underneath the window, upon which medi- 
cines were set; on another was a spirit lamp, some cordials, and 
a bowl of ice ; everything had the rigid look of a sick-room 
under the charge of a professional nurse. 

At a sign from the dying woman the attendant admitted a 
ray more of light, and then, with rather a reluctant step, with- 
drew into an adjoining chamber. 

Christine heard her name called faintly from the bed ; she 
went towards it, knowing nothing but that her heart was throb- 
bing with loud pulsations, and her throat was bursting with a 
dreadful pain. There was such a blur before her eyes that she 
could not see her sister’s face, and she stood beside her for some 
minutes before she really knew what it was she looked upon. 
Helena was raised up with pillows ; she breathed with painful 


A VOW. 


15 


effort, bat she was fighting with the faintness produced by hei 
emotion, and struggling to command herself for some last words 
that she hardly had the strength to utter. The unmistakable 
lividness of death had settled on her features, but her eyes 
burned with a restless glitter, and her lips moved with an eager- 
ness that was in pitiful contrast to their ghastly purple. 

“ They did not tell me,” she said, gasping at every word for 
breath, “ till half an hour ago, how little time there was. I 
would have sent for you before, but I meant it should be the 
last thing.” 

There was a pause. “ I have sent for you, Christine, because 
I have something that I wish to tell you. I ^^ant you to listen ; 
you are not such a little girl ; you will be fourteen somewhere 
about Christmas-time I know.” 

Christine tried to say “ yes,” and the dying woman went on : 
“ Come a little nearer to me. I want to look at you. I want 
you to understand.” 

She came a step nearer to the bed, and pushing one Ihin 
hand under the pillow to support herself, Helena turned her 
head towards her, and fixing her strangely eager eyes upon her, 
went on, excitement strengthening her voice as she proceeded. 

“ Fourteen years is not so young ; I took care of you when 
I was only a little past fourteen. I was very good to yon, 
Christine, though you can’t remember; only I married and 
had to go away. I have been very unhappy, and this is what 
I want to tell you about now ; very unhappy, very, very misera- 
ble. They have wronged me and my boy ; there is no truth in 
what they say; the only thing about it was, I would not give 
him up to them. But I’ve got to give him up now. O my 
poor child !” 

A low groan burst from her as she turned her face clown 
upon the pillow. 

“I’ve got to leave him, Christine, leave him alone without a 
soul to take care of him — the only thing I love in all tho 


10 


A VOW. 


world. That I’vfc struggled and fought for, and hid mysell 
and led such a dreadful life to keep with me ! I’m going to 
die, and he has got to stay. Think of it, Christine ! Don’t 
you feel sorry for me ; all these years thrown away, and his 
father will have him yet! His father, who has made me suffer 
so ; I would rather have him in the coffin by me. O my 
baby!” 

There was a moment of silence, as the mother lay with her 
convulsed face buried in the pillows ; then lifting it suddenly, 
and with an effort, she fixed her eyes on the little girl and said 
in a hurried low voice : 

“Christine, I give my boy to you ; I make you his mother, 
I charge you to keep him ; I have a right to, and I make him 
yours. My father is worn down and old ; what does he know 
of children ? Besides he will die some day, and then Julian 
is alone. But you — you will grow up, you will take care of 
him and watch him — you will not let him from your sight! 
Christine, you will live for him ! You will hurry to be a 
woman ; he needs so much care, he is so delicate. There is 
always that little cough, like mine I think; but he will outgrow 
it, he will be better in this air, I know. Don’t leave him to 
Crescens; she is a dull old crone, she is not fit to manage him. 
Take care of him yourself; don’t let anything come between 
him and you !” 

There was a pause ; the sufferer gasped for breath again, 
raised herself higher in the bed, while her eyes searched her 
sister’s face with an eager, subtle look. When she spoke again 
it was in a different voice : 

“You say ‘yes’; I know you will love him and be good 
to him now^ while there is nothing else — but when there comes 
a lover and a husband and babies of your own, you will forget 
my little boy ! You will let him go if his father finds him out 
and comes for him ; you will say — Well, yes, he may as well have 
him then. Oh, it breaks my heart! My Julian is as good as 


A VOW. 


‘17 


lost if he once falls into his hands ; or if he does not get him; 
he will be a poor neglected child, pushed out of the way for 
other children, nobody to pet him, nobody to go and look at 
him after he gets asleep at night, nobody to see that his clothes 
are pretty and that he is warm and comfortable. I see it all! 
I cannot talk about it; if you had a heart you would be sorry 
or me ; you would not let me die believing that.’’ 

“ What is it that ^^ou want ?” said the younger one in a 
nollow whisper, looking at her bewilderedly. 

“ This is what I want,” said the other, catching her breath and 
trying to raise herself up in her eagerness. “ I want you to pro- 
mise me something ; it is not much, it is not unreasonable. I 
would not ask it if it were not best for you as well as him. You 
must not think that it is selfish ; why, how could I be selfish when 
I — I am dying, as they say ! I want Julian to be safe, and you, 
you will be so much better off. Christine! I have been so un- 
happy ! There is so much trouble in the world if you are 
married. Men are brutes, Christine ; that is all about them. I 
could tell you enough to make you loathe the very thought of 
being married. A husband ! that is just a tyrant, a wretch 
who only cares to break your will, a good fellow who goes out 
into the world and leaves you biting at your chain at home. I 
cannot bear to think you should be so unwise ; you, who have 
a home and money, and everything that makes girls need to 
marry. Besides you are not pretty, you are not the kind that 
marries. I have watched you ; you are steady, straightfor- 
ward, you are not coquette. With some girls it would be 
different, but you are like a nun. Ah ! the nuns ! How I envy 
them with their sweet calm looks, Christine. They don’t have 
such rings about their eyes as these round mine ; their skins are 
smooth and fair, they keep their beauty till they are old old, 
women ; they are not haggard wretches while they are yet 
young, like me ! 

“ Look at me, Christine ! I was a beauty onc(^ a beauty not 


18 ‘ 


A YOW. 


ten years ago. The people looked after me in tlie street ; 1 
could have had as many lovers as I wanted. And now I have 
the face of fifty ; I shudder when they bring the glass to me. 
And that comes of being married ; that comes of having a 
cruel wicked husband, who was, oh! like an an^el of light at 
first. They deceive you so, Christine ; it is main de fer sous 
patte de velours : always main de fer after the wedding glove 
comes off. You cannot take your innocent little pleasure, you 
must have the eyes always on the floor; you must not look 
pretty for any one but him. That is the beginning, Christine! 
That is the beginning that ends in hating, hating, hating! Oh, 
I cannot talk about it ; it takes away my minutes to remember 
what I have gone through. 

“ Christina ! I want you to promise me you will not marry ! 
I want you to swear to me you will not. You must believe 
what I have said, you must remember it is all the worst of 
misery. You will be saved from being what I am, you will 
have a long and happy life; you will have Julian; I will give 
him to you, and that is the only good in being married — a child 
to love and have about you always. I have suffered for him ; I 
had all the pain, I give you all the pleasure : oh, it is the best 
for you. How well I remember what sufferings those were! 
They thought that I would die; there were days and days Hay 
just between life and death. It was in Strasbourg; how the 
bells kept ringing ; chime, chime, chime. I used to lie and 
listen. Ah ! that is so long ago ! He was very kind to mo 
then ; he would have done anything, I believe. They told me 
he never slept a moment, that he never left me all the time : it 
seems he must have been fond of mo after all. 

“Well, what was I saying ? I got thinking of old times ; he 
wanted a child so ; he always had loved children. It was not 
me he cared for. Just as soon as I got well, it was the old 
trouble back again ; jealous like a Turk. I could not stand it 
No woman can stand things like that, Christine.” 


A VOW. 


19 


She sank back exhausted for a moment, though never taking 
ner anxious glittering eyes away from the young girl’s face, and 
struggling desperately for breath to speak again : — 

“You will have Julian, as I said : you can live such a happv, 
easy life. You will have your little fortune, enough for you 
and him : poor boy, he has not anything; I had to use it all, 
these five years that I have been hiding him and living in 
strange cities ; to travel costs so much. He is a little pauper, 
that is what he is, Christine. He is at your mercy. I don’t 
know what will be the end. My father has not anything to 
leave ; our poor mother little thought there would be only one 
left to have all her fortune. No matter, Christina : you must do 
as you will. I cannot ask it of you. But be kind to my poor 
darling for a little while ! Do not turn him out just yet. He 
has been so petted, he has had everything lavished on him ; 
it will be such a change. If you cannot promise what I ask, 
promise at least to be kind to him just at first, for his poor mo- 
ther’s sake, whom the good God takes away from him.” 

“I will promise anything you want,” said the girl, in a low 
tone, putting her hand up to her head, as if with an effort to 
command her thoughts. 

“ I knew you had a good heart,” murmured the dying w^oman, 
catching at her hand and trying to draw her towards her. 
“ Heaven will reward you ; you will be good to Julian, and he 
is an orphan ! Promise me this : you will not marry ; you 
will live for Julian ; you will take care of him ; you will share 
your fortune with him ; you will do your best to keep him from 
liis father; you will never give him up to any one! Promise 
me this — quick — I — I believe I am worse — I want to hear you 
—speak — ” 

“ I promise.” . 

Tlic child’s voice was low, but steady. 

“You promise it before God, solemnly. I am dying; we 
keep faith with the dying ; Heaven curses those who trifle with 


20 


A VOW. 


the dead ; say this one thing to me ; kneel down as if yon 
said your prayers ; say this, ‘ I swear ” 

" Christine sank trembling on her knees beside the bed, feeling 
the convulsive grasp of her sister’s cold and clammy hand and 
the strange fascination of her excited eye ; but through it all, 
knowing what she did. The words “ before God, solemnly” had 
waked her from her trance. The terrible weight of a vow 
made to a dying woman in the name of Heaven, extinguished 
all childish terror and amazement. She was a religious child, 
morbidly conscientious, reverent to superstition. Helena had 
not watched her for a month in vain. She knew with whom 
she had to deal : she knew she could trust in this pale child if 
she could once bring her to pledge herself to what in after years 
she would still look upon as binding. 

“’Why need I swear?” she murmured, pressing her hands 
before her face. “ It is so awful ! I will do all you say without.” 

“ 0 my God !” cried the mother, in a shrill painful whisper, 
“she does not mean that I shall die in peace. Forgive her, my 
good Lord!” 

“ Hush, hush,” murmured the child, putting up her hand to 
stop her. “ I — I swear iC' 

“God will bless you,” gasped her dying sister, sinking back 
upon the pillow. “Kiss me, Christine.” 

She pulled her faintly towards her with the hand she had 
retained, and the little girl stooping forward, their lips met ; 
a touch that chilled her to her very soul. For months after she 
never closed her eyes to sleep without the shuddering recollec- 
tion of those clammy lips on hers, that short hot breath upon 
her check. 

“ You are a good child,” she panted, holding her face down 

hers : “you must never forget this day : you — you need not 
tell my father what has passed — between us — remember — it 
would distress him : God is witness. Now go — bring my boy 
to me — quick, Christine — I — I am faint — ” 


A VOW. 


21 


Tlie nurse came back at a word from Christine. “Bettei 
call her father,” she said, in a low tone, after a glance at the 
changed face on the pillow, as she hurried to the bed. 

A few minutes later Christine led the child into the room 
The physician, the nurse, and her father, standing by the pillow, 
gave way as she approached. The agonized eyes of the dying 
woman had been fixed upon the door by which she entered, and 
with a low moan she faintly stretched out her arms. Christine 
lifted the child up beside her. 

“ Julian, darling — kiss me — look at me,” she gasped, in ac- 
cents that were heartrendinof. 

This was a dreadful death-scene; the agony of parting; the 
king of terrors dragging away his victim, who stretched her 
arms back wildly to where “low on the earth, her heart and 
treasure lay.” There was no prayer ; who could pray ? The 
grey-haired father turned his head away in anguish from the 
sight; even those other two, familiar with death-beds, felt awed 
by this. 

She caressed the boy with a passionate tenderness, pressed 
his curls against her lips, laid his soft check on hers, held him 
to her heart, called him a thousand loving names, cried out 
against the cruelty of death. 

The final moment of physical suffering was appalling. She 
had combated death so long, that it shook her fiercely when 
she had to sink into its grasp. The child, in terror, recoiled 
from her; she groped for him with her empty arms, turned her 
darkened eyes towards him, and murmuring his name in broken 
aceents, staggered out alone into the awful blackness — the door 
of life and l ope for ever shut between her and her idol. 


2? 


A STRANGER. 


CHAPTER III. 

A STRANGER. 

Underneath that face, like summer ocean’s, 

Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear ; 

Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart’s emotions. 

Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow — all save fear.” 

It was more than two years since there had been crape on Dr, 
Upham’s door; the boy Julian was two years older, the girl 
Christine was now sixteen. 

It was December; a still clear evening; the little town of 

was lying in a frozen, silent way under the stars and 

moon. It was not vet seven, but the moon was so briorht that 
a traveller, just entering the town by the w’estern turnpike, 
slackening his horse’s pace, took out his watch and read the 
hour distinctly on its face. lie put it back again, and then 
rode forward on a walk. lie looked about him thoughtfully, 
and paused with a moment’s hesitation v;hen he came to a 
point where the road forked. lie chose the right hand way at 
last, guided perhaps by the “ twinkling stars of household light” 
in the distance, and the glimmering of a sheet of ice beyond 
the trees in front of him. 

He came presently upon an old mill standing on the edge 
of the pond, with long icicles hanging from its silent wheel, and 
the moonshine playing upon its padlocked door and dangling 
idle rope. The pond had been frozen over only since the night 
before; there were white cracks vcining the clear ice, and along 
the dam and by the bridge it had been broken in several places. 
The pond lay in a sort of basin, with low hills surrounding it 


A STRANGER. 


2S 

OTi three sides — swamp-willows clipping down into its brink, and 
dark pine trees rising above it against the sky. There was a 
row of old poplars bordering the road along the dam, and the 
bridge, with its gate now shut and frozen, was a favorite tryst- 
ing place for the youth of on moonlight nights in sum- 

mer. 

As the horseman reached this point, he suddenly drew rein and 
turned his head towards the pond with the air of one who lis- 
tens. He fancied he had heard something like a faint cry of 
distress coming from across the ice ; but the moonlight was so 
clear, he could see the whole extent of its surface quite distinctly, 
except in the deep shadow of the trees bordering its eastern 
edge. He stood still for some minutes; called in a clear voice; 
waited, listening keenly for an answer — called again ; there w'as 
complete silence, and he rode slowly forward. He had passed 
the dam and left the pond some distance behind him, when he 
abruptly turned his horse’s head and retraced his steps thought- 
fully. He could not get that faint cry out of his ears ; it could 
not have been fancy ; he was not given to that sort of thing. 
He descended from his horse, leading him along the dam, re- 
connoitring the surroundings of the mill and the edges of the 
pond, and sending many keen and anxious glances into the 
shadow thrown upon the ice by the dark trees on his left. 

It was a lonely spot, though so near the town. The miller’s 
house was not far distant, but it was out of sight ; Im looked 
around in vain for some one to consult with on the sound that 
had disturbed him. After all, it may have been the distant 
echo of some schoolboy’s shout in the woods beyond the 
swamp; it must have been more distant than the pond, or his 
own calls would have elicited some answer. He turned away 
again, only half satisfied, however, and had reached the end of 
the dam, still leading his horse and looking back with an anxiety 
for which he ridiculed himself, when he heard a voice, and turn- 
ing his head, saw a dark shadow lying across the moonlight in 


24 


A STRANGER. 


Ills path. A young girl was standing before him wrapped in a 
long cloak, the hood of which had been drawn hurriedly over 
her head. 

“ Have you,” she said, speaking quickly but without a shade 
of hesitation, “ have you seen a little boy anywhere upon the 
dam or turnpike ?” 

“ No,” he returned, hesitating as he spoke; “no, I have seer 
no one.” 

“Thank you,” she said, half-inaudibly, without looking at 
him again as she ran on. He paused and watched her ; she 
stopped at the edge of the pond and called eagerly: “Julian ! 
J ulian !” 

At this moment a boy crept through the bars near where 
the stranger stood, and was darting across the road, when the 
girl turned suddenly and saw him : 

“ Harry, Harry Gilmore!” she called, springing towards him, 
“where’s Julian? Tell me, quick — you’ve been on the pond; 
you’ve had him with you.” 

“ What business is it of mine where he is?” muttered the 
boy, plunging down the bank and striking into a path across the 
field. “ Look after him yourself.” 

His face had a white, frightened look, and the haste he was 
making to get away struck the stranger as suspicious. He 
approached the girl, who stood pale and silent, looking across 
the ice. * 

“ Is there any path around towards the east side of the 
pond ?” he asked. “ That is the only quarter of it we cannot 
eee distinctly.” 

She caught his meaning, and with a quick movement said 
“ yes,” and sprang towards a barred gate just below which Har- 
ry Gilmore had come out. She pushed it open, and he followed 
her, throwing the bridle of his horse around the post. A nar* 
row path led through a thicket of swamp-willow and alder- 
bushes, through which his guide led the way so fast ho scarcely 


A STRANGER. 


25 


could keep up with her. It grew uarrower and more tangled, 
till,* turning abruptly, it led down to the water’s edge. They 
saw that the bushes had been broken down along the path, and 
that the frozen, marshy ground had tracks of wet and muddy 
feet. A pair of skates lay in the path. The girl reached the 
water’s edge before her companion ; she uttered a low cry that 
thrilled him painfully. There was a great break in the ice some 
twenty or thirty feet out from the bank, against which the 
water was gurgling with a low sound ; a boy’s cap floated on it. 

“ Stand back, my girl,” he said quickly, as she made a step 
forward on the ice. “ It will not bear us both. Run back and 
get the halter round my horse’s neck. Quick ! Don’t lose a 
moment.” 

She gave him a bewildered look and minded him. He tore 
his way through the thicket to a fence bordering the marsh, 
and pulling ofi* two heavy rails, dragged them back to the ice. 
His companion was there almost as soon as he ; taking the 
rope and throwing his heavy coat into her arras, he bade her 
keep it and not move till he came back or called for her. 
Moving cautiously upon the ice, which bent beneath him, he 
pushed the rails before him till he approached the crevice, and 
then lay down, guiding himself by his hands alone. It was a 
dangerous experiment, and one in which he had very little 
hope. The current no doubt had sucked the body far out of 
reach by this time, and there was little chance that life could 
still exist in it, wherever it might be. Probably that faint cry 
he had heard had been the last. A moment more and he had 
reached the crevice ; another, and the rope was round a little 
arm, caught by its sleeve in a projecting point of ice. 

When he approached the bank with his dripping burden in 
his arras the girl covered her eyes and turned her head 
away. 

“ Put my coat around him,” he said ; “ I think we may 
revive him. How, run to my saddle-bag for a flask of brandy. * 

2 


2G 


A STRANGER. 


She was out of sight down the tangled path almost before 
the words left his lips. When he emerged from the thicTiet 
and reached the gate, she stood holding it open, with the flask 
of brandy in her hand. He laid his burden down upon the 
ground, turned the coat back from the face, while the girl again 
turned away. He took the brandy from her and bent over 
the child anxiously with one hand on his heart. 

“How far to the village?” he said, wetting his lips with 
brandy and chafing his lifeless hands. 

“ Not half a mile,” she said, in a steady voice though low. 
“ But there is a short path through a lane to th-e church, and our 
house is next to it.” 

“ That is the Parsonage ?” he said, glancing up at her. 

“ Yes, Dr. IJpham’s,” she returned. He stooped over the 
boy again, pushed back the yellow curls plastered on his 
temples as the moonlight fell upon his face, then wrapped the 
coat closely round him and stood up. 

“'You will have to lead my horse,” he said, “ and show me the 
way to the lane.” 

“That is the shortest way,” she said, disentangling the bridle 
with quick movements and hurrying forward. “ But if we go 
by the road we pass the doctor’s.” 

“ No matter for the doctor ; I am one,” he said. “ All we 
want is to get him home.” 

“This way,” she said, turning abruptly down into a lane that 
crossed the road. “ Mind the path ; it is full of ruts and is 
very rough.” 

That it certainly was ; the stranger with difficulty saved 
himself from falling again and again as he plunged along the 
dark, uneven road. 

“You had better let me carry him,” she added after a while 
in a smothered voice, in which for the first time there was 
a tremble. Its intonation recalled her to her companion’s 
thoughts ; he seemed almost to have forgotten her. 


A STEANGEE. 


27 


‘‘He is very safe with me,*’ he said, speaking with an effort. 
“ Your'arms would not be strong enough for such a weight.” 

“I have often carried him.” 

“ He is your brother ?” 

“Yes,” she said, hesitatingly, “he is — my brother; yes.” 

“You must not be discouraged,” he said, as they plodded 
on hurriedly and silently. “ He may not have been long in the 
water. I have seen many cases of wonderful resuscitation.” 

She tried to answer, but her voice was 'choked. 

They came presently into a broad flood of moonshine ; she 
was some yards in advance, with her hand upon the horse’s 
bridle, and she paused and looked back, saying, “ We are almost 
there,” as the church porch became visible through an opening 
in the trees ; “ we must go through the churchyard ; it is the 
shortest way.” 

“Leave the horse here,” said her companion, as they reached 
the unused gate that opened on the lower side of the church- 
yard. She hastily twisted the bridle round the low branch of 
a cedar-tree that stood by the wall, and pushing open the gate, 
went on before him, picking her way over the irregular, un- 
marked graves that filled this corner of the yard. There was 
no path ; the w'hole ground was braided over with briers, and 
brown with long dead tufts of grass. Twisted old cedars and 
dark pines grew about the stone wall, and low shoots of the 
same trees had thrust themselves up through many of the ne- 
glected mounds. “ La plus morte morV^'' to be buried in such 
a spot as this. 

As they cam5 out of this briery desolation into the wider, 
better tended plats of those who slept nearer to the church, 
Christine turned to wait for her companion. 

“You had better go on into the house before me,” he said. 
“ It may save those within a shock. I will follow you.” 

“ There is no one but my father,” she said. “ Follow me as 
quickly as you can. I only need a moment to tell him.” 


28 


A STRANGEE. 


She disappeared thr(3ngh the side gate that led into the Par- 
sonage enclosure. Drawing a long breath, the stranger shifted 
his heavy burden to the other arm and paused an instant. The 
spot where he stood was between the garden wall of the Par- 
sonage and the west transept of the church. A long row of 
little graves lay in the deep shadow that the building threw ; 
but a broad stream of moonlight fell upon the white marble 
that terminated them — a higher, fresher mound, with more 
than one dead wreath upon it. The stranger looked down and 
read “ Helena” on it, as he moved away and went through the 
gate and along the path that led up to the house. Christine 
was hurrying down the steps to meet him, and a tall man with 
bent figure and grey hair stood in the doorway with a bewildered 
and alarmed expression. 

“Let me take him now,” she whispered, putting out her 
arras. 

“Yes, I believe you may,” he answered, huskily. “ I confess 
I am a little shaken.” 

He leaned for a moment against a pillar^that supported the 
piazza roof, then followed them into the house. 


TIIE EECTOR. 


29 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE RECTOR. 

“ A lore benignant he hath lived and taught ; 

To draw mankind to heaven by gentleness 
And good example, is his business.” 

Chaucer. 

At eleven o’clock that evening Dr. Upham sat with his guest 
by the dining-room fire. Julian, on Christine’s bed up-stairs, 
was lying quietly out of all danger now, they thought. The 
Rector was talking more than usual, as people generally do 
after passing safely through a great and sudden peril. More 
than once he left his chair and walked about the room, talking 
as he walked. 

Ilis companion was not a nervous man ; he sat perfectly still 
and only answered questions ; he might have been tired with 
his long journey and subsequent exertions, but he had not the 
air at all of being weary. On the contrary, his quiet, observant 
eyes moved thoughtfully from one thing to another in the 
room, while he did not seem to lose a word of what Dr. Up- 
ham said, and appeared to listen continually for the slightest 
movement in the room above. 

He was a well-made man, in stature a little above middle 
size; in’ age, anywhere between twenty-eight and forty; of 
any country you pleased, and no one guessed the one to which 
he actually belonged; he was blonde, that might have been 
German ; he was admirably well bred, that looked like Frencli ; 
he was dressed in good style, but with a certain heaviness and 
roughness that seemed extremely English. There was an in- 


30 


THE KECTOR. 


describable peculiarity in his literal, close-shaven language, that 
showed him to have learned it as a foreigner, or to have been 
long out of the habit of using it familiarly. He seemed a good 
physician and to have perfect confidence in himself, since, in the 
present case, which seemed to interest him, he had desired no 
assistance from the family attendant, and had even said he 
thought it was unnecessary to have him called ; and such was 
the reliance that his cool, prompt ways inspired, that Dr. IJp- 
harn countermanded the order he had issued to send for Dr. 
Thurston, before he had been ten minutes in the house. 

“ The fact is,” he said, walking restlessly up and down past 
his guest’s arm-chair by the fire, “ the fact is, my confidence 
in Dr. Thurston is not entirely established yet; he is but a 
young man, and has only been practising eighteen months or 
so. He may do very well, but we miss our old physician sadly 
He has been dead almost two years ; he attended my eldest 
daughter during her last illness ; this house was about the last 
he visited. Poor Johnson ! it will be long before we can sup- 
ply his place. This brisk young fellow makes a strange and 
uncomfortable contrast to him. Where are you practising. Dr. 
Catherwood ?” 

The question was abrupt ; the stranger gave a little start, 
perhaps because he was not prepared for anything abrupt from 
his benevolent, mild-eyed host ; but recovering his easy manner 
almost instantly, he returned : 

“ Nowhere at present ; in fact, I have never practised regu- 
larly at any time. I filled a professorship a year or two in 
]) , but my experience has been principally confined to hos- 

pital practice and desultory attendance upon cases that have 
come particularly to my notice in the neighborhood where I 
have happened to be staying. I have never desired the confine- 
ment of an established professional life. My habits of travel 
and desire for change unfit me for it ; I should find it very irk- 
some.” 


THE RECTOR. 


31 


“ That I can understand in early life ; but at your age, my dear 
sir, a man finds his happiness best secured in a settled home.” 

The good Rector was a little frightened after he found he had 
said “ at your age,” and looked with a slight anxiety at hia 
guest ; but his guest was beyond the point where people wince 
at being told what their faces make no secret of; he reassured 
Dr. XJpham by a little smile, and Dr. Upham, who had an idea 
in his mind that for the moment drove everything else out of it, 
went on with some animation. 

“ The world, it is a very good school ; I would send a boy 
into it as I would send him off with his hornbook to the near- 
est dame a little earlier ; but, my dear sir, a man doesn’t want 
to go to school through his whole life. The cream of existence 
never rises till he settles into quiet ; he’s not worth much to 
the world or to himself till he brings his knowledge, his expe- 
rience into port ; he might drift about till doomsday, with the 
wealth of the Indies all aboard, and nobody be any better for 
it. The hardest, dullest bit of stone, without a spray of moss 
upon it ; believe me. Dr. Catherwood, repose is as necessary to 
the last half of a man’s life as action is to the first. You under- 
stand what I mean by repose — no relation in the world to indo- 
lence. One cannot extend himself, his influence and energy, 
over the surface of the globe ; he has wasted himself till he has 
brought it all to bear upon one spot ; the smaller, sometimes it 
seems, the better chance he has of doing work that can be seen 
without the microscope.” 

His listener’s eyes were fixed steadily on the burning coals 
upon the hearth ; there was a shade < f bitterness about his 
mouth — a shade so delicate that sometimes it seemed like sad- 
ness only ; he did not reply when his host paused, nor change 
his attitude or expression when he resumed his theme. It was 
not till Dr. Upham, following out the thought upon which he 
had been enlarging, said : “ I infer you are not a man of family 
that he raised his eyes and answered : 


32 


THE EECTOPw. 


“There are few men as free from ties as I am, sir. It ia 
years since I have known anything of family relations ; the 
pleasure of giving protection and of being protected are alike 
among the memories of my earlier life. At this moment I stand 
that point of isolation — rmy fate is necessarily of consequence 
to no one living but myself.” 

There was a pause ; Dr. Upham began to see he had been 
almost rude, and his guest began to feel he owed it to his 
entertainer to tell him something of himself. It cost him 
an effort, though, to do it ; he spoke after a moment without 
hesitation, but with a precision that showed he was measuring 
his words. 

“ I have been so long away from my country, I shall hardly 
find myself at home even in my native State. I landed at New 
York last week after an absence from America of thirteen 
years, and am wandering about now, almost aimlessly, putting off 
the evil day of a return to Virginia, where there awaits me 
nothing but the vacant home of my early boyhood. Not one 
member of the narrow family circle has survived my exile; 
I cannot hurry back where there is no fireside — only a grave- 
yard. ‘ Who breaks, pays my wanderings have cost me 
dear.” 

“ Then let me counsel you,” said the clergyman, “ to pay off 
quickly and begin upon another score. There is a great deal 
of time lost often in bickering about charges, and showing 
why things were not different : avoid that like a wise man ; 
confess you have been an ungrateful wretch, and have cheated 
your country of your best years; go down to Virginia, pass a 

few weeks in penitence, and then come back to , take poor 

Johnson’s pretty cottage there below the mill, step into a hand- 
some practice instantly, assume your place among your country- 
men, take hold of the work for which you are so fitted, and 
lead the quietest, safest, honestest life a man can live. You are 
too well seasoned to grow rusty ; there is never any danger of 


THE RECTOK. 


33 


rust where there is activity of body with time enough for men- 
tal exercise and contact with minds above and below medio- 
crity, as in such a place as this, within easy reach of the stir- 
ring influences of town. Sir, I cannot picture to myself a life 
more profitable, more comfortable. At your age, and in your 
position, it would have been seducing to me. I want you to 
come here ; I am ready to acknowledge, the society of a scholar, 
and the desire of having again a reliable physician for my 
family, make me somewhat selfish in my counsel, but I am cer- 
tain it will be for your own good. I know the place thorough- 
ly ; forty years, forty years, sir, in this very Parsonage. I came 
here in deacon’s orders ; it was a young parish then ; they 
gave me the Parsonage and three hundred dollars. That was 
a good deal more than the Parsonage and three hundred dollars 
would be to-day ! 

“ I built up the parish. I suppose I feel as if they were my 
children, all of them. I taught a class of boys at first, and 
stretched out the three hundred in that way. Then I married ; 
my wife was rich ; we let the little boys go home, you may be 
sure ! We enlarged the Parsonage, gave the three hundred 
to the poor, and so it has gone on. I take nothing from my 
parish but the Parsonage, and that accounts for it that they are 
not tired of their old minister ; or if they are, that they consent 
to smother their discontent. Sometimes I think it is a little hard 
upon them ; I am afraid they have outgrown me ; I have a 
great mind to let them send for Saul. But then that would 
almost' be suicide; it would break me up entirely, and it would 
not be for their good either, that I can really see. Making 
haste to be rich is the error of our time. Dr. Catherwood, just as 
much in spiritual as in worldly matters. People are getting 
impatient of the time required for healthy growth ; they stimu- 
late, they resort to strong devices to improve themselves ; and 
so a fast religion has come into fashion, and I am out of date, 
I have thought it over a great deal ; sometimes 1 decide In favoi 

2 * 


84 


THE HECTOR* 


of the son of Kish, and sometimes I conclude they need me 
most when they desire me least. 

“But this is neither here nor there : they want a new physh 
cian, Dr. Catherwood, whatever we may think about their need 
of a new clergyman. I was going to tell you it is a sound and 
well built sort of place, this; I do not know wdiere you would go 
to find a better set of people in the main. There are several 
families where you can feel yourself among companionable 
minds — a small society of refined and well-bred persons, mixing 
part of the year in the outside world, and bringing back a good 
deal of its vigor with them. Then the larger class among whom 
your labors would call you are of a good, substantial sort ; better, I 
believe impartially, than the average population of small towns. 

“ It is not what it was fifty years ago ; we arc brought within 
four hours of the city; education has been greatly cared for; 
those two unsightly factories on the river above the town have 
sent a great deal of fresh blood through its veins ; they have 
brought in a less desirable element, it is true, but they have 
also given a fresh impetus to those of the townspeople who 
without them would be idle, or who would be forced to go 
abroad for work. I am old fogy, but I do not care to have the 
world stand still for all that. I liked it better as it was in my 
young days ; but I do not desire to put it back to what it was 
then, knowing that seeing it through young eyes gave it its 
charm, perhaps ; and there are plenty of young eyes looking at 
it now. 

“Well, was a village when I came into it; it is a town 

now, and they begin to light the streets with gas. It has had 
the grace to grow. up a little out of my sight, however, and 
leave me and my church almost rural yet ; but it has trebled 
the value of some acres of mine in the village, and has added 
a good many thousands to my little Christine’s inheritance. 
That, they might tell you, has reconciled me to the progress 
we are making; but I th/nk not. 


THE RECTOE. 


• 

‘‘You are reflecting upon my proposal, I can see, Dr. Gather* 
wood. I will not press it upon you further, but I shall not 
cease to hope you will think well of it. There is no need of a 
decision for the present; look about you for a few months, 
only bearing this in mind. If you decide favorably upon it, 
remember my influence will be exerted to the utmost to make 
your position here all that you could wish immediately, and 
that the Parsonage will always hold a most grateful welcome 
for you.” 

“Your kindness touches me very much, sir,” said the guest, 
rising and holding out his hand to Dr. Upham with a mingled 
expression of pain and gratitude. “ Your confidence in me 
while still a stranger makes me honor you, and distrust myself 
and my own ability to meet your generous expectations of me ” 

“You can never be a stranger in the house that owes you 
what this does, Dr. Catherwood ; and for the rest, I trust to my 
own instincts. I have not studied men for sixty years in vain, 

I think. I do not ask any more of you than you choose to tell 
me; your past history may be a sealed book for ever if you 
please. All I ask is some assurance of your professional 
ability, some evidence of your standing among physicians, 
to build the faith of other men upon, and the matter of forma- 
lities is past. You will begin a new score with time, as I have 

said ; and date from the little town of in the year one 

of grace. A stranger ! no no, ray dear sir. If you had been 
my bitterest enemy, you would have earned my friendship by - 
your work this night; being but a stranger, you have made 
yourself my friend for ever, no matter what the future may 
bring forth. 

“ When I think,” ho added, dropping his hand and pacing the 
floor in agitation, “ what a scone this house would have pre- 
sented at this moment but for you, I cannot control myself ; 

I forget my grey hairs and my many sorrows. I forget the many 
scenes of dismay and anguish it has presented ! I could find 


•86 


THE EECTOR. 


it in my heart to say this would have been a sorrow I could 
not have borne, used as I am to ‘sorrows of all sizes.’ Towards 
old age, my friend, there is a lack of strength ; my heart is 
weak towards poor Helena’s boy ; he is the last link that 
binds me to the beloved past. My little girl is the child of my 
sad old age ; Julian is the souvenir of my happy^rime. I love 
his mother in him — ^his mother, the first-born in this old house, 
the beauty, the darling of my home ! The law of primogeniture 
has its seat beyond the reach of legislation. Poor, poor Helena ! 
A blighted, strange career ! She was but little comfort to me ; 
rather a constant pain ; but I hold her memory dearer than a 
world of comfort and prosperity ; I love her boy, inheritor of 
her many faults, as I have loved nothing since my youth. She 
worshipped him ; I say it with a sigh ; the mother, in her, swal- 
lowed up all other feelings ; she would have died, I almost 
think she did die for him ; and to have lost him so, to have had 
him perish so soon after she had left him with us, would have 
broken my old heart, shattered my old brain. God has made 
you the instrument of this great mercy to our family, and it is 
not possible we ever should forget it.” 

There was a long silence ; the clergyman paced up and down 
the room ; the stranger sat by the fireside, his face shaded by 
his hand. The lamp was growing dim, the wood had fallen into 
ashes on the hearth ; presently the clock struck twelve. 

The clergyman started and glanced up at it. 

“ You must forgive me,” he said, as he took a candle from the 
sideboard and lighted it at the fire. “ Your room is the right 
hand front-room on the floor above, opposite the one where tho 
boy lies. Perhaps you will look in at him as you go up.” 

Julian was in a quiet sleep ; his young aunt was sitting 
motionless beside the bed. 

Indeed she sat so nearly all the night. She watched the 
new-comer go into that dark chamber with a shiver, wondering 
if he did not feel as he entered it that death had been a guest 


THE EECTOE. 


3 ^? 

there once. The great canopied bed and silent walls told 
nothing to him, perhaps, of what they said to her ; but as the 
night wore on, she sat and watched in a sort of fascination the 
bright streak of light ULder the door that for hours and hours 
did not disappear. 


38 


DK. CATHERWOOD. 


cnAPTER y. 

DR. CATHERWOOD. 

** Who rides his sure and easy trot, 

While the world now rides by, now lags behind,” 

HERBBHT. 

In the early part of May there was a reign of carpenters, 
painters, and house-cleaners at the little cottage beyond the 
mill ; in the latter part of the same month there was a restora- 
tion of order and tranquillity, following the arrival of a middle- 
aged, energetic woman, who made herself the terror of the 
dilatory artists, and had the happiness of welcoming her master 
to a habitable house. 

There was soon a name upon the long-closed door that the 
boys spelled over on their way to school, and the villagers mis- 
called in every imaginable manner : 

Dr. Edward Catherwood. 

The stable had been put in better order than the house, and in 
it w^as installed a fine, high-stepping horse, that the doctor drove 
before his buggy, and a light-built, pretty mare, which he rode 
more frequently in his errands out into the country. 

For the doctor had errands in many different directions, not- 
withstanding the predictions of little Dr. Thurston, who was 
in a measure, beside himself, at the intrusion. He gave u| 
his pew in the church at the first receipt of the news, ana 
took a “sitting” in the Baptist edifice, by way of stabbing 
Dr. Upham in his tendercst vein ; he canvassed the country 
zealously, and blackened the new-comer’s character with too visi- 


DR. CATIIERWOOD. 


39 


ble a spleen ; he worked himself quite lean and yellow during 
the early spring, and was laid up with a bilious fever before the 
new doctor actually took possession of his quarters. All of 
which militated very much against him. lie had aroused pub- 
lic curiosity to a high point ; and before he was in the field 
again the whole town had taken occasion to have an illness, and 
had sent for Dr. Catherwood to see what he was like. 

lie was like something so very easy and pleasant, that they 
all wanted an excuse to employ him constantly ; and the yellow 
little practitioner met so small a degree of enthusiasm on his 
first round of visits, that it threw him back a whole fortnight 
in his convalescence. 

Besides his pleasant and easy manner, and the prestige of 
being a bad fellow, the new doctor had in his favor the patron- 
age of those few families who constituted the polite society of 

, and that made him much desired by those who were 

outside of that society. He became, in fact, a greater favorite 
than suited him exactly ; it was not altogether the high virtue 
that it seemed, when he praised Dr. Thurston’s practice among 
his temporary patients, and turned them back to his care the 
very moment he was able to ride out. 

Dr. Upham’s advice appeared, on the whole, to have been 
judicious ; there seemed every reason to believe that Dr. Ca- 
therwood had done well to come to anchor in the little town of 

. The slight shade of bitterness that, on that first visit. 

Dr. Upham had ff^ncied he noticed on his face, had now quite 
passed away. The good old man began to doubt whether it 
ever had been there ; whether his guest had a history, after all ; 
and whether he had not been mistaken in fancying him a dis- 
appointed and world-weary man. lie talked very freely of his 
travels, his foreign education, the shortness of the period he 
had spent in his own country between boyhood and manhood ; 
but he was of that rare order of talkers who interest with- 
out ever being personal. He seldom talked of people, even the 


40 


DE. CATHERWOOD. 


people among whom he practised every day, although ho acted 
always upon a most accurate knowledge of their characters. 

The Parsonage became his second home ; no companion 
seemed to suit Dr. Upham half as well. A day seldom passed 
when he did not take some meal with the family, or spend an 
hour or two on the piazza smoking with the Rector ; while 
Christine worked or read in one of the windows, and Julian 
played about the garden, now in the full bloom of summer. If 
he ever .failed to come, Julian was certain to be sent down to 
the cottage with a note, saying that that box of books had 
come from town ; or, there was a fine saddle of mutton for din- 
ner ; or, Dr. Upham was out of tobacco, and begged he would 
bring some up for him in the evening. 

The Parsonage certainly was a pleasant house to be at home 
in ; few men could have resisted its attractions, coming from 
however comfortable a bachelor establishment. The ways 
were old-fashioned, but they were of the best fashion of a very 
sensible day. The table was always admirable and well or- 
dered. If the house had been gloomy a few years ago, that 
was wearing off. No house can be gloomy long with a fresh 
young girl and a noisy little boy among its articles of furni- 
ture. Christine had companions of her own age now who 
came sometimes to see her ; Julian was hand-in-glove with 
every rascal in the neighborhood, and Dr. Catherwood’s pre- 
sence always had an invigorating effect npon the Rector. 

But beyond the matter of hospitality, Julian’s illnesses were 
continually calling him to the house; Dr. Upham would have 
considered half his income well laid out in securing such a 
medical attendant for the boy. He was a child requiring the 
most constant care ; he did not seem at all to outgrow his early 
delicacy; any over-excitement or imprudence was invariably 
succeeded by convulsive attacks of a most alarming nature. 
His nervous system seemed always in the same excited state; 
his wildness and restlessness were beyond control ; a whole 


DR. CATIIERWOOD. 


41 


nurserj full of ordinary children would have been an easv 
charge compared with that of this elfish, untamed boy. If, as 
it is said, the real education of a child is accomplished within 
the first three years of his existence, Julian’s strange, wilful 
temper was not to be wondered at ; but upon merely physical 
grounds, his grandfather accounted for all, and excused all ten- 
derly. Such a sensitive organization as his could not be sub- 
jected to ordinary discipline ; he must not be thwarted ; as his 
strength increased, and he outgrew his present difficulties, he 
would learn to govern himself and be like other children. 

To all of which Christine assented silently. 

Julian, though looking scarcely eight, was now eleven. He 
was very delicately made, exquisitely little, with the fairest skin 
and very large blue eyes. He still wore his yellow curls down 
to his waist, and was yet dressed in very childish style, in the 
rich clothes his poor mother had brought with her from abroad. 
There was a trunk full of embroideries not yet made up, velvets 
and cashmeres still to be braided and cut out ; plumes, buckles, 
and mosaics, fit for the wardrobe of a little prince. Christine 
had charming taste, and worked her pretty fingers weary on his 
clothes ; and the result was, the disedificatiou of the critical por- 
tion of the congregation, and the clamorous condemnation of 
the extravagant ways of the parson’s family by the town at 
large. So little is the popular judgment worth ; this work was 
a religious duty with Christine, and the Rector could not have 
told whether his little grandson wore linsey-woolsey or Lyons 
velvet. 

Master Julian never thought of attending to what his grand- 
father advised ; hescouted the influence of Christine ; he bullied 
openly his bonne ; he carried fire and sword into the kitchen; 
only of Dr. Catherwood did he stand in any awe. The Doctor 
alone could induce him to take his medicines; he never dared 
to disobey the Doctor’s injunction to lie still and to stay in the 
house. And though he never showed the least affection foi 


42 


DE. CATHEEWOOD. 


any living thing, his interest in this new member of the family 
circle bore more resemblance to that sentiment than any other 
he ever had exhibited. He was willinir to come into the house 
when Dr. Catherwood was there ; and though he never expressed 
any pleasure when he came, or any regret when he went, and 
generally refused to kiss him, and often pouted when he spoke ; 
to him, it was assented to by all. Dr. Catherwood was the only 
person who could do anything with Julian. 


EARLY SUMMER. 


43 


CHAPTER VI. 

EARLY SUMMER. 

“ Heaven’s soft azure in her eye is seen ; 

She seems a rose-bud when it first receives 
The genial sun in its expanding leaves.” 

It was about half an boar before tea-time, a fine July after- 
noon. Dr. Catherwood came in at the gate of the Parsonage 
and walked slowly up the boxwooded path to the piazza. 
There was no one on the piazza; Julian’s hoop and a muddy 
little pair of overshoes lay at one end, but no Julian was in 
sight. Dr. Upham’s hat and cane were gone from the hall 
table, and there was no one in the parlor. 

So, thought the new-comer, I am here alone till tea-time. 
The wind was waving slightly the white muslin curtain at the 
western window, and on the stiff, high-backed, mahogany chair 
beside it lay a work-basket and a book, the reader’s place 
marked by a handful of mignonette. He lifted up the piece of 
muslin that lay in the pretty little basket, a half finished em- 
broidered shirt of Julian’s, and looked at it thoughtfully for a 
moment, then turned over the pages of the book. It was 
“ Evangeline he put it in his pocket and walked towards the 
door, stopping on his way to take a cigar out of a box upon the 
bookcase in the corner, and a match from the safe beside it. The 
back and front hall-doors stood open ; he lit his cigar as he passed 
out upon the back porch and down the steps into the garden. 

There w'as a long walk passing under a grape-vine arbor 
down the centre of the garden ; on one side were flowerbeds 
full of old-fashioned, sweet-smelling flowers; on the other, a 
grass-plat planted with tref/S and shrubs, extending to another 


44 


EAKLY SUMMER. 


walk, bordered by a hedge of box that ran along the whole 
side of the enclosure, next the churchyard wall. Below the 
garden and the shrubbery, at the termination of the covered 
walk, there was an orchard, not separated from the garden by 
a fence, but extending back for about an acre to the stone wall 
that enclosed the whole of the Parsonage grounds. The trees 
w'ere old, but most of them were full of fruit. The grass was 
short and even ; and around the centre of one tree, just at the 
termination of the vine-covered walk, there was a circular 
bench to which the smoker made his way. An opening had 
been cut in the branches facing the walk ; on all other sides the 
boughs drooped quite down upon the ground. 

It was a favorite after-dinner lounge of his ; he threw him- 
self upon the bench, resting his elbow on the little table by it, 
and drew the book out from his pocket. He had not read 
many minutes, however, before he looked up, distracted by a 
flutter of white garments down the path. It was Christine 
coming towards him with an open note in her hand. She 
paused at the entrance of his retreat, and looked in at him 
smiling. 

“ I missed my book,” she said, “ and was certain you had gone 
olF with it.” 

“ Well, you can have it,” he said, making room for her on the 
bench beside him, and taking the cigar out of his mouth. 

“ Oh, I have no doubt, if I wanted it,” she answered ; “ but I 
don’t.” 

“There is an excitement,” he said, looking at her as he laid 
down his book. “ What has arrived ? Tell me all about it ?” 

“Oh, nothing of moment,” she answered, with a little laugh, 
pushing aside the branches and coming to the seat beside him. 

She was dressed in white, with a pale-green bow of ribbon at 
her throat; her shoulders, which were beautifully formed and 
white, showed through the transparent muslin of her dress ; and 
her full, thin sleeves did not hide the roundness and fairness of 
her arms. Her skin was ordinarily pale, but was tinged now 


EARLY SUMMER. 


45 


witli a faint pink, and her dark-brown eyes had an unusual 
brightness in them. Her forehead was low, and her bright 
auburn hair, showing a gleam of reddish gold in every wave, 
was fastened in a heavy knot at the back of her well shaped 
head. This last year had developed more beauty in her than 
her childhood promised. People were beginning to say. Why, 
that little TJpham girl is going to be pretty, after all. 

Dr. Catherwood did not look at her again as she sat down 
beside him, but said, knocking the ashes from his cigar and 
putting a card in the book where he had left off reading: 

“ Pale-green is your color ; did you know it ?” 

“Is it? Well — I thinlcvyou have forgotten what you asked 
me to tell you.” 

“ Oh, no ; I have not. Who is the note from ?” 

“ Why,” she said, “ it is from the Hill — from Mrs. Roger Sher- 
man, who has just come from abroad, you know. She has been 
away for three years and more; the house has been shut up ; 
and she is going to give a party now. She is always giving 
parties, I believe. And she has invited me. I wonder how 
she came to think of it ; she is very kind.” 

“ Very kind,” repeated Dr. Catherwood, with a little smile. 

“ Why, you see, she never used to invite me ; and I don’t 
believe she ever spoke to me in her life.” 

“ But you are a young lady now, you know,” said Dr. Ca- 
therwood. 

“ Seventeen, next December,” she answered, thoughtfully. 
“ Yes, that is grown up, almost.” 

“ And you will be invited to parties often, now, of course,” 
he continued. “ It is time you began to think about it.” 

She gave a nervous little laugh. 

“ Do you know, I never was invited to a party before in my 
life. I don’t know whether I arn pleased or not.” 

“ Oh, you are pleased, take my word for it,” said her compa 
nion. “ It has almost turned your head.” 


46 


ear;.y summer. 


“ But I don’t know what to do about it — had I better go ? 
And must I write an answer to the note ? I haven’t an idea 
what to say. And I really don’t know what to wear, if I 
shbuld go. You see there is nobody to tell me about any- 
thing. ” 

Her companion dropped his light tone when she said this, 
and taking the note, glanced over it, saying, “ Let us see. Yes, 
it requires an answer, either way : we will write it when we go 
into the house. About accepting — I cannot see any reason 
why you should not accept. Your father will say yes, no doubt, 
and I think you will enjoy it.” 

“ But then — there is nobody to take me ! I hadn’t thought 
of that !” 

“ True, you could hardly go alone ; how about your black-eyed 
friend, the young Miss I saw here with you last week ? Will she 
not be going, and cannot her mother chaperone you, too ?” 

“ Maddy’s mother, Mrs. Clybourne, you mean ^ Do you 
think she would object?” 

“ I cannot sec on what ground. And then you might ask 
her what you had better wear, perhaps.” 

“ Why,” she said, looking uneasy, “ I don’t know her well 
enough for that. I should not like to talk about such things to 
her.” 

Dr. Catherwood repressed a smile at the innocence that 
feared to obtrude the subject of dress on a lady of Mrs. Cly- 
bourne’s established worldliness ; he was sorry she ever had to 
learn that its discussion filled the nights and days of at least 
one-half of her own sex. 

“ You have another dress like this,” he said, touching the 
sleeve that lay beside him on the table. 

“ Oh, yes, I have a muslin — yes — thinner than this, low neck. 
Why, perhaps, it will be just the thing. I ought to wear low 
neck, ought I not ?” 

“ I suppose so,” ho said, biting his lip and drumming for a 


EARLY SUMMER. 


47 


moment on the table. “ All young girls do, I believe, though 
the dress you have on is prettier, to my fancy.” 

“ Oh, this is not nice enough. You will see how much bet- 
ter the other one will look ; and you like light green. I have 
thought of something charming. I have it all. It will be very 
pretty ! I should like to know whether Maddy is going to wear 
white. Will they dance, do you suppose. Dr. Catherwood ? 
It is such a pity that I don^t know how. I wonder if any one 
will ask me 

“ What shall you say if any one should, by any chance ?” 
he said, looking at her with a smile. 

“ Why, that I was very sorry, but that I never had learned 
how, I suppose. I have no doubt they will think I am very 
stupid. Do you know, I am always afraid of young ladies from 
the city ? Even Maddy, I believe, is very soon tired of talking 
to me. Perhaps she will think more of me when she finds I am 
going to Mrs. Sherman’s. We shall have something to talk 
about afterwards, too ; and the trouble always has been, we did 
not have anything that we both cared about.” 

“Yes; and the more you have in common with Miss Made- 
line, the less you will have in common with me ; Miss Made- 
line’s gain will be my loss ; do you see that ?” 

“ Why no, I do not see it. I don’t understand, exactly.” 

“ It is not necessary that you should. I believe I was think- 
ing aloud just then. By the way, what has become of Julian ? 
I haven’t seen him all the afternoon.” 

“ Julian ? I don’t know. In the barn with Crescens, I believe,” 
she answered, in a changed voice, subsiding presently in silence. 

“ Well, what is it?” said her companion, watching her quietly 
for a few moments. The color had left her cheek, the anima- 
tion was gone from her eyes ; she sat twisting the note between 
her fingers with a thoughtful, troubled look. “ Nothing,” she 
said, rising. “ I must go and look for him ; I believe I had for- 
gotten all about him.” 


48 


EARLY SUMMER. 


“ You must not go,” he said, “ till you have told me why yon 
look so serious.” 

Why — I do not know,” she said. “ Only, on the whole, I 
think I had better not go to the party. Julian might be ill ; I 
have never been away from.him a whole evening yet. I should 
not be home till one or two o’clock, perhaps ; and Crescens is 
good for nothing. She never knows what to do in one of his 
attacks. She is a perfect stupid ; I never should forgive my- 
self, you see.” 

“That is all very foolish,” he said, firmly. “ The sky might 
fall, you know. I shall not think much of your common sense 
if you speak in that way again. Julian is perfectly safe with his 
grandfather and a house full of servants — good as servants ordi- 
narily are. You must not take such care upon you ; it is an 
absurd thing at your age. I have been wanting to speak to you 
about it, and this has brought me to it. You take too much the 
care of that boy. It has injured your elasticity already. You 
are an incongruous mixture of child and woman. There is no 
justice in your being sacrificed. If Crescens is not capable of 
taking charge of him, some one else must be engaged who is, and 
you must cease to feel the constant care of him. I intend to 
speak to Dr. Upham immediately about it.” 

“ That you must not do,” she said, earnestly. “ I shall never 
forgive you if you say anything to my father. Crescens cannot 
be sent away ; there are reasons for it, and I cannot speak of 
them; Understand, Dr. Catherwood, you will make me very — 
unhappy — almost angry, if you speak about it. I choose to 
take care of Julian; it is my choice^ if there were nothing 
more.” 

“ Understand, Miss Upham, I shall speak about it if you give 
me any more occasion. Let there be no more nonsense about 
staying away from Mrs. Sherman’s, not trusting to Crescens, 
sitting up all night, stooping over sewing all day, on account of 
ib’s boy Julian. You will be sent away to boarding-school 


EARLY SUMMER. 


49 


some fine day ; you are putting on the airs of a young woman 
quite too soon !” 

There was a flash and flutter among the branches ; Christine 
had darted away, a flush of indignation on her cheek ; and Dr. 
Catherwood, watching her disappear through the trees, said to 
himself with a low laugh as he resumed his book ; “ The pretty 
little innocent 1” 


3 


50 


IN THE NURSERY. 


CHAPTER VII. 

IN THE NURSERY. 

“ The green 

And growing leaves of seventeen 
Are round her ; — and half hid, half seen, 

A violet flower ; 

Nursed by the virtues she hath been 
From childhood’s hour.” 

Halleck. 

Dr. Catherwood was smoking a solitary cigar in the porch of 
his solitary little cottage ; the mill-stream which ran below ths 
garden was whispering to itself in the twilight, and the water 
rushing over the dam was throwing abroad a lulling music. It 
was the evening of the entertainment at the Hill; Dr. Cather- 
wood had taken dinner at the Parsonage, had assured himself 
of the success of his plans for his young favorite, and was at that 
very moment thinking of her innocent excitement with a smile 
of pleasure. He had negotiated with Mrs. Clybourne for her 
protection, had made her happy with the present of a beautiful 
bouquet, dictated the little note of ceremony, and had repre- 
sented to her father that he must encourage her in every way. 

He almost thought he would go to the Hill himself a little 
while and see how she enjoyed it, and make sure also that the 
city-bred young ladies did not throw her in the shade. He 
appeared to debate the question for some time ; it required a 
good deal of effort to bring him to the point of getting up and 
throwing his cigar away, for he was rather an indolent man, it 
was considered, and he had had a day of hard riding too in a 
dozen different ways about the country. He leaned for a few 


IN THE NUESERY. 


51 


moments against the vine-covered pillar of the porch after he 
had thrown away his cigar, listened to the rushing of the water 
over the dam, said heigho ! with a sort of sigh as he turned into 
the house and hunted about the hall to find a light. He was 
just entering his bedchamber, an apartment on the ground-floor 
opposite his office, when the little gate opened and some one 
came running down the path. 

It was the pretty waitress from the Parsonage. 

“ Well, what is it, Ann ?” he said, meeting her at the door. 

“ Master Julian ” — she began, and then stopped quite out of 
breath. 

“ He is iff ? Very well ; I will go up immediately.” 

Dr. Catherwood evidently was not an indolent man when 
there was anything to be done. He did not wait for his horse, 
but striking into the lane below the mill,^took the short path to 
the Parsonage, reaching it sometime before Ann the waitress did. 

He went directly in, and up the stairs to the room where 
Julian slept. It was a large, airy room that opene^l out of 
Christine’s, which had always been “the nursery” when there 
were children in the family to inhabit it. One way of enter- 
ing it was from the hall, behind the stairs ; the shortest was 
through Christine’s room. Dr. Catherwood went in this way, 
not stopping to think till he was in the room, where a couple 
of tall candles were burning below the glass, and a white dress 
lay upon the bed, with a little pair of slippers by them. The 
bouquet stood on the window-sill ; two or three white skirts 
were flung upon a chair. 

He pushed open the nursery door. Crescens, with her usual 
dull and stolid face, was carrying away a bath-tub, while Julian 
was lying wrapped in blankets on Christine’s lap beside the 
bed. Chi;istine’s face expressed relief as she caught sight of 
the new-comer, who approached without any undue haste, and 
taking the child’s wrist, said in a commonplace tone as he sat 
down upon the bed : 


52 


IN THE NUESERY. 


“ Well, Julian, my boy, what’s the matter this time ?” 

Julian fretted and turned his face away, but did not attempt 
to take away his hand. 

“You’d better let me put him on the bed,” said the Doctor, 
rising and lifting him into his place. “ You have given him 
one of those powders ?” 

“ Two ; he has just taken the second one.” 

“ That’s all right. When did it come on ?” 

“ Half an hour ago. I saw before tea he was not well, he 
was so very fretful ; he had been off somewhere with Harry 
Gilmore. I had begun to dress, when Crescens called me ” 

“ It is a trifle,” said the Doctor, looking at him attentively. 
“ But you may go and mix that other powder for me, in case 
he is not quieted.” 

The medicine was in another room, and Christine was 
absent several minutes. When she came back, the Doctor 
said, taking out his watch : 

“ Now you had better go and finish dressing ; you will not 
be ready.” 

She started. “ You do not suppose I would go away ?” she 
said, half reproachfully, half incredulously. 

“ Of course. Why not ? Julian is well enough. There is 
not the least danger of a return at present. He needs you 
no more to-night than always, and you know we have agreed 
he does not need you always. Remember our conversation the 
other evening in the garden. I shall certainly have to inter- 
fere ''' 

“You are unreasonable,” she began, with flashing eyes, but 
her companion rising and taking her by the hand led her to 
the door of her own room. 

“Why take things an tragique^ Christine?” he said, half 
closing the door between them and the nursery. “ You know 
I am as careful of the boy as you are. If he needed you, I should 
let you stay. To pacify you, I will stay myself and watch him.” 


IN THE NUESERT. 


53 


Christine bit her lips to keep back the tears, and resolutely 
laid she would not leave him. 

“Well, then, I have had all my trouble for nothing,” he 
said. “ I have been pleasing myself with thinking how pretty 
you were going to look, and how much you would enjoy your- 
self.” 

There was a pause. 

“ You will be sorry to-morrow. You will think, what a 
silly girl I was. Come ! I will make a compromise with you. 
You get yourself ready and go with Mrs. Clybourne, who 
comes for you at half-past nine. I will stay by Julian till 
twelve, and then come for you myself ; for I suppose Mrs. Cly- 
bourne will not be ready to come away before two or three. 
That will make you absent less than three hours in all. Does 
not that please you ? You are ungrateful if it does not, and 
there can be no possibility of pleasing you.” 

Christine shook her head, but it was finally agreed upon, 
and Dr. Catherwood shut the door and went back to Julian’s 
bed, leaving her nothing but to comply. 

At half-past nine a carriage rolled up to the gate. Chris- 
tine knocked at the nursery door and whispered good-night 
faintly. Dr. Catherwood, who was dropping some medicine 
into a glass, only answered au revoir in the same tone, and did 
not open it. It was at the door leading into the hall at which 
the had knocked; after a few moments there came another 
little tap. 

“ Well?” said the medical attendant. 

“ Can’t I come in ?” she asked in a whisper. 

“ Why, no,” he said, in a low tone, going towards the door 
but not opening it. “Julian is lying very quietly, and it is 
not worth while to rouse him.” 

There was a little pause of hesitation, and then with a sigh 
she moved away. He motioned Crescens to take his place by 
the bod. 


64 


IN THE NURSERY. 


“ Oh, I see what it is,” he said, opening the dooi and following 
her down the hall. “Youw^ant to know whether you look 
pretty. Come under the light and let me see.” 

“ I was not thinking about that at all,” she said, coloring. 

Dr. Catherwood had taken her hand to bring her to where 
the light fell upon her, but as they reached it he dropped her 
hand suddenly and drew back. 

Was he disappointed? She was lovely. Her dress was 
beautifully fine and white, graceful and full in its sweep about 
her slight, well rounded figure ; her hair was classically simple ; 
her eyes and cheeks bright with excitement ; on her white 
arms and neck she wore bracelets and a necklace of carved 
malachite in Etruscan setting. 

She had not expected him to admire her, but she felt vague- 
ly pained at his look of disappointment. “He had forgotten 
that my hair was red, perhaps,” she thought, instinctively 
drawing back from the light. Her companion noticed her 
movement and tried to recover his usual tone, as he said : 

“ Your dress is very pretty. Mrs. Clybourne will not have 
cause to be ashamed of you.” 

But the tone was not a natural one ; the manner w\as a mark 
of something she did not understand, and Christine went down 
the stairs perplexed and heavy-hearted. 


A SOUND OF KEVELRY BY NIGHT. 


56 


CHAPTER Ylll. 

A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT. 

“ Ne In her speech, ne in her haviour 
Is lightnesse seene, or looser vanitie ; 

But gracious Avomanhood and gravitie, 

Above the reason of her youthly yeares.” 

Spenser. 

Dr. Catiierwood walked np and down the hall with a steady, 
even tread for a long time after Christine left him and went 
down to Mrs. Clybourne. He heard, or perhaps he did not hear, 
the gate close and the carriage drive away ; he did not seem to 
notice Crescens glowering at him from the door of Julian’s 
room ; it was only a fretful cry from the boy himself at last 
that roused him, and with a slight start, throwing off his revery, 
he entered the room and went np to the bed with even more 
than his usual kindness and good-humor. But when the child 
slept the revery returned ; he sat beside him like a statue, with 
eyes of stone fixed upon the ground. The servant had to speak 
twice who came to announce, at half-past eleven, that his horse 
was at the door. 

The moon was just rising as he drove within sight of the 
house on the Hill ; the lights from it were all shining through 
the trees, and the music came out from all its open doors and 
windows. Upon the east piazza, where the moon was already 
shining, there were plenty of imprudent dancers walking ; the 
western one, deeply in the shade, was vacant. Calling a ser- 
vant to his horse, Dr. Catherwood went up these steps, glanced 
into the hall, and then, through an open window, looked into 
the parlor. It was a perfect “ rose-bud garden of girls.” 


b'6 


A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT. 


Dr. Catherwood said to himself : “ There are at least twenty 
pretty women in those two rooms, but the minister’s little 
daughter is the prettiest of all.” 

The minister’s little daughter seemed to have forgotten the 
heartache of two hours ago ; her face was radiant with pleasure ; 
her youth and light-hearted ness spoke in every movement ; she 
was enjoying a rare, beautiful, brief moment that could not, 
om its nature, come again. Pride, envy, and ambition had 
not yet crept in ; admiration only meant kindness, pleasure 
only excited an unconscious gratitude. 

A great many eyes were on her ; Mrs. Sherman, who had no 
children of her own, and was always trying to fill the void by 
petting other people’s, was praising her to every one, and bring- 
ing a great deal of notice on her. The city-bred young ladies 
were looking at her with no affection, and the city-bred young 
gentlemen were looking at her with a great deal. She was not 
dancing, for that excellent reason she had given Dr. Cather- 
wood ; but every good-looking man in the room had asked her 
to, and more than one had given up the pleasure of that exercise 
for the gratification of talking to her and doing his part towards 
spoiling the innocence that charmed him. 

Dr. Catherwood watched her for some time with a curious, 
half-uneasy look ; she was walking up and down the long apart- 
ment with an admirer on each side; his fine bouquet was irre- 
verently handled by the more nervous talker of the two ; one 
was babbling flattery, the other was looking it ; more than once 
in their walk they were interrupted by some new introduction, 
petition for a dance, or officious offer of civility. 

“ Pshaw !” said Dr. Catherwood half aloud, “ they’ll spoil the 
child by all this nonsense and with an involuntary impatience 
lie pulled the curtain aside and stepped in upon the light and 
pleasant scene. The three he had been watching with so little 
approbation were approaching at the moment that he made his 
entrk ; Christine dropped the arm of her companion and 


A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT. 


57 


started forward, sayirg, “ Oh, there is Dr. Catherwood !” in a 
naive, earnest tone, while a shade came over her face with the 
memory of the sick room at home which the sight of him 
recalled. 

Dr, Catherwood bit his lip ; it seemed a little hard, with all 
the pains he had taken for her pleasure, that he must be the 
skeleton at the feast, and bring the first shade over her happy face 

“Julian is no worse ?” she said, hurriedly and anxiously. 

“ No worse,” he said, with a smile ; “ I came to tell you yon 
had better stay and come back with Mrs. Clybourne.” 

“ No,” said Christine, with a visible effort. “ I am quite ready 
to go now, only I did not think it could be twelve o’clock 1” 

“ Of course not, Cinderella ; but it is, and after.” 

“ Where is Mrs. Sherman ? I want to say good-night.” 

“ To say good-night !” exclaimed the forgotten holder of the 
fine bouquet in a tone of deep reproach, while the other start- 
ing forward, said, “ Miss Upbam ! You are not in earnest ! 
Has anything occurred 

He looked towards Dr. Catherwood, gave a start, and ex- 
claimed in a tone of great astonishment : 

“ Is it possible, Ned ” 

The sentence was not finished ; a quick look from Dr. Cather- 
wood checked him ; he extended his hand with an inquiring 
look. “ I should as soon have thought of meeting the Khan of 
Tartary here as you,” he said, recovering himself. 

“You cannot be more surprised than I am,” returned the 
Doctor. “ I had no idea you were in this country.” ♦ 

“We are old fellow-travellers. Miss TJpham,” said Colonel 
Steele, in an explanatory manner, turning to Christine. “ Two 
such wandering spirits, we ought not to be surprised at meeting 
anywhere while we are confined to the same planet.” 

“ If this encounter is to be as brief as our last one was, I 
must improve it,” said Dr. Catherwood. “ Miss Upham will 
excuse us, I am sure, for a few moments.” 

3* 


58 


A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT. 


He took Colonel Steele’s arm, and they walked half a dozen 
times up and down the hall, talking in low voices ; then came 
back to the window where Christine stood waiting for them, 
their places well supplied by some fresh flatterers. 

“ I am quite ready to go,” she said, the moment they ap- 
proached. She was quite sobered, quite unradiant. She was 
not hearing half that her admirers said. “ I assure you it is 
unnecessary,” he returned, looking at her critically. 

“ I want to go,” she said, simply. 

“Principally because you wish to stay, I suppose,” ho 
answered. 

“ Oughtn’t I to go and tell Mrs. Clybourne ?” she asked. 

“ Why, yes, if you mean to go with me.” 

“ Then won’t you take me to her ?” 

The manner in which the young belle left her admirers was 
quite a study ; they felt themselves thrown to an immeasurable 
distance ; even the most assured of them lacked the confidence 
to follow her and remonstrate with her on her going. They 
felt the chill of her preoccupied, simple manner more than any 
haughtiness. 

Mrs. Clybourne smiled good-humoredly when gbe told her 
why she went; she was a woman of the world from her youth, 
and she evidently thought Dr. Catherwood very willing to get 
the young dehutavte away from her admirers. 

Maddy said, “What! going now?” from over her partner’s 
shoulder as she was whirled past her down the room ; while 
Mrs. Sherman left a group of dowagers to remonstrate (^enly 
against her leaving. 

Mrs. Sherman was the dread of all timid and easily embar- 
rassed people ; she had not much tact, but a very strong will, 
and a great desire that everybody should be pleased and enter- 
tained exactly as she wanted them to be. She spent her life in 
trying to amuse herself, and she seized greedily upon any one 
that promised her the least excitement. She always had some 


A SOUND OF EEVELRY BY NIGHT. 


59 


one to protect and patronize, somebody about her to make her 
feel as if she were' doing good — an artist with long hair, a poet, 
or an unremunerated author of poor prose. She always had 
one or more young girls staying with her, which made her 
house attractive ; and if the young girls did not mind being 
praised, petted, and patronized in the most public manner — 
schemed about, made conspicuous, and finally married oflf to 
some oihQY protegh^ it was all very well. 

Mrs. Clybourne being a widow, and living on a stated in- 
come, the statement of which was very brief, was prepared to 
welcome very gladly Mrs. Sherman’s protection and favor for 
Madeline, now just ready for society. Madeline, consequently, 
had been sent up to the Hill continually on amiable errands 
since Mrs. Sherman bad returned, and had succeeded in making 
herself quite a favorite with her. Therefore it was with very 
great regret she saw the impression that the little girl from the 
Parsonage was making. Mrs. Sherman certainly was taking 
her up violently ; everything conspired to make her enthusiasti- 
cally Uprise. She had not seen anything so fresh and innocent 
in years she declared ; she always had doated on hair of just 
that shade ; she liked nothing so much as a girl without a 
mother ; and she was, at just that period, intemperately high- 
church. Dr. Upham had baptized her, or married her, or some- 
thing of that sort ; he was associated with the happiest days of 
her life ; she should lose no time in renewing her old friendship 
for him. Besides, Christine was an. heiress, she soon learned; 
and tttough that took a little from the merit of the act, it would 
make bringing her out a much more interesting task. She 
would save the girl from being sacrificed to some clownish fel 
low, and would give her a thousand advantages which she could 
not otherwise have hoped for. “i/h petite violette !^'> she ex 
claimed from underneath her muslin roses ; “ tu. ne sera pas 
toujours cackle dans la campagne r 

Dr. Catherwood saw the situation instantly ; he felt he should 


60 


A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT. 


have done better to have dictated “Miss Upham regrets ex- 
tremely,” when this mighty huntress’s invitation came. There 
was an end of pristine simplicity and content in the old ways at 
the Parsonage. “Just as all other women are,” insipid beyond 
expression, when she learned all that Madeline Clybourne and 
the rest could teach her. 

Dr. Gather wood was almost brusque when he replied to Mrs 
Sherman’s protests about taking Christine away ; he thought it 
in very bad taste on her part to say so much about it, and won- 
dered that Christine could endure so many caresses and such 
open adulation from her. 

“ I shall certainly come to-morrow morning, dear, and see if 
your father really sent this hard-hearted gentleman after you. I 
can’t see how he could have been so cruel ! ” 

When they were out in the moonlight fairly on their way 
home. Dr. Catherwood recovered his good temper, or at least 
the appearance of it; but Christine was very silent, absorbed in 
her own thoughts. 

“ So you have had a pleasant evening ? ” he said by and by, 
stooping forward to pull her white dress from the wheel. “ Did 
any one ask you to dance ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, of course ; a great many.” 

“ Why of course ? You thought they might not, you know.” 

“ Well, Mrs. Sherman told them to, I believe. I never met 
any one exactly like Mrs. Sherman.” 

“No ^ Why, I know a dozen people like her. You propose 
to be very fond of her, no doubt.” 

“ No, I had not thought of it.” 

“ Still, you like her, I am sure.” 

“ She’s extremely kind to me,” said Christine, relapsing into 
silence. — 

“Then there’s my friend Colonel Steele ; what did you think 
of him ? ” resumed her companion, after a pause. 

“ Oh, he was very pleasant,” she answered, brightening. “ J 


A SOUND OF EEVELRY BY NIGHT. 


61 


think I liked him better th^ any one ; though, to tell you the 
truth, I believe I liked them all. I never had so much pleasure 
in my life before. I wish I could go to a parly every night. 
The music. Dr. Catherwood, was it not delightful ? I would 
give anything to dance. And the dresses were so pretty ! 
Why, I could hardly speak when I first came down into the 
parlors, everything was so new and strange. Don’t you think 
that is a beautiful house ? It is the finest one I ever saw ; the 
piazza is so broad. Oh, how little the one at home seems after 
it ! I wonder Mrs. Sherman can go away to live. By the way, 
Mrs. Sherman says she used to know my mother, and — and — 
Helena my sister.” 

“ Ah I ” 

“ She saw Helena once, at some great ball la Paris, the 
winter she was married. She says she was so beautiful, every 
one was talking of her. And what was very strange, she wore 
white, and these same ornaments I have on to-night. Mrs. 
Sherman says they were so striking she never had forgotten 
them. Helena gave them to me when she first came home ; 
I think she did not like them. She packed all her other jew- 
elry away for Julian. I would give anything to have seen her 
when she was beautiful. We have no picture of her any- 
where. It is so dreadful to die and leave no shadow, no mate- 
rial souvenir of the body we inhabited ; it is very treacherous to 
trust only to the memories of those who have once loved us — 
people will forget — it is such a short time to live ” 

There was a long silence. It was these thoughts that had 
sobered the young girl so suddenly; she hardly realized that 
she had given them utterance, or mentioned her sister’s name 
for the first time to her companion. 

“ I am not in the least like her, they say ; not a look of her 
about ray face, nor Julian’s, either. It is as if she were gone for 
ever ; he has almost forgotten her, I sometimes think ; and I 
find myself forgetting, though I try so hard to keep her in my 

% 


62 


A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT. 


mind. My father is the only one that has her clear and con- 
stant picture in his thoughts. Don’t you think him changed 
and older lately ? But I forgot ; you never knew him before 
she died.” 

“I do not think him changed since I came here to live. 
What makes you fear he is ?” 

‘‘Nothing; I had not thought of it ; but Mrs. Sherman says 
the passed him the other day upon the road, and never would 
have known him if Madeline had not told her. She had heard 
all about Helena, and she says so much trouble has almost 
killed him, she is sure. She asked me all about — all about 
Julian and our family matters, exactly as if she had known me 
all her life. I suppose it is because I have seen so few strangers, 
but it made me very uncomfortable. I shall get used to it, 
however, I suppose.” 

“ Let me advise you never to feel comfortable in the discus- 
sion of family matters with a stranger. Mrs. Sherman is a 
stranger to you ; her catechism was ill bred. I do not want to 
know that you ever are used to such things, Christine. I do 
not want you to be intimate with Mrs. Sherman. I should be 
sorry that Madeline even were your confidant. Promise me to 
tell nothing to her, and to Mrs. Sherman, and to the hundred 
others who may soon surround you, but what you might tel] 
out in the hearing of the world. Nothing of your home rela- 
tions, nothing of your feelings, nothing of your heart, Christine. 
Can’t you make me your friend, as far as such a friend is neces- 
sary? There is no one who cares more for your happiness than 
I do, no one who is more interested in all the trifles that con- 
cern you ; and if you will be contented with my sympathy, and 
accept sometimes of my advice, it may save you from a good 
deal of trouble and regret for indiscretions.” 

“ It is not much of a compliment to say I like you better 
than I like them; but all the idea I have of a frien'l comes from 
you, and I never shall talk to any one but you. Why should 


A SOUND OF EEVELRY BY NIGHT. 


63 


it ever be different ? There are three people that I never want 
to be away from, you and my father and Julian. The othera 
are all very well, but I can do without them.” 

There was a little silence as they drove under the shade of 
the elm-trees and turned into the broad street on which the 
church and the Parsonage were built. 

“ I shall not forget,” said Dr. Catherwood, as he took her 
hand to lift her to the ground at the Parsonage gate. 

“ Nor I,” said Christine. “ So good-night.” 


64 


THE CLTBOUBNES. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE CLYBOURNES. 

“ Proud Maisie is in the wood 
Walking so early ; 

Sweet Robin sits on the bush 
Singing so rarely. 

“ Tell me, thou bonny bird, 

When shall I marry me ?” 

Scott. 

“Julian is much better this morning,” said Christine, rising 
to meet Dr. Catherwood as he came in. 

“ I am very glad of it,” he returned, professionally, standing 
still at the parlor door with his hat in his hand, having 
made his salutations to the party in the parlor. “ I suppose I 
may go up ?” 

“If you please,” said Christine, sitting down. 

She was environed by more visitors than she had ever had to 
entertain in her life before at one time. There was Mrs. Sher- 
man, talking with the peculiar enthusiasm of a pious woman of 
fashion to the old Rector ; Madeline Clybourne, playing with 
the feather of her round hat and sparkling with wit and vivacity ; 
Colonel Steele, looking very handsome and using his fine eyes 
dangerously ; and the chattering bouquet-holder of last nighty 
who named himself Leslie, and who was by trade an author. 
Both these gentlemen were staying at the Hill, and had come 
with Mrs. Sherman and Madeline in the fine open carriage 
which now stood at the door. 

Christine looked rather pale, and not nearly so pretty as she 
had looked the night before ; but neither of the gentlemen seem- 


THE CLYBOTIIiNKS. 


65 


ed disillusionized. “ All is fine that is fit.” The droop of the 
lily is one of its charms. 

There was not a trace of languor or weariness about Made- 
line ; her eyes were merry, her cheeks glowed with color. Of 
course she knew that she looked well ; she had put on her white 
picquet dress that morning, knowing that she looked her very 
best in it, and had put her coral earrings in, with the strong 
conviction that the Hill carriage would drive up to the gate 
some time in the course of the morning. 

She had heard so much of beauty all her life, she felt a thrill 
of satisfaction every time she looked into the glass ; the strong 
rnsb of youthful happiness was carrying away with it the 
unlovely vice of vanity that bubbled up occasionally into sight ; 
rather a pretty sparkle now, but a deadly taint, “ a woe for 
future years,” when the current should be slower and the 
fountain low. 

Madeline was not a foolish child ; she had great talent, great 
beauty, and a soul fit for very noble things. Neither was Ma- 
deline’s mother a foolish woman, as the world counts foolishness; 
she had great energy, wonderful administrative ability, strong 
affection for her children, and very correct ideas of her duty on 
most questions. She was almost a religious woman ; she was 
not far from being what she ought to be. She had brought 
up her children with the greatest care ; she had not spared 
herself, had worked day and night to make up the stinginess 
of fate to them, and give them the advantages they would have 
had if their father had lived and prospered. A miracle of 
cleverness she had appeared to those who knew the slenderness 
of her resources; 'her boy had had the best education that the 
country could afford him ; her eldest girl had been brought 
before the world with a fiourish of trumpets that might have 
heralded the entrance of a beauty and an heiress. 

flow the Clybournes kept such a brave front to the world, 
however, was a wonder only to those who did not understand 


66 


THE CLYBOUEJS^ES. 


the oneness of purpose, the strong ambition of the mother 
Indeed, she had little assistance from those for whom she 
worked. The son proved a lazy, unstable fellow, as most men 
prove who are born with thin purses and educated as if they 
were entitled to stout ones. He was not a credit to his mo- 
ther, nor any ornament to society. He rarely went into any 
dashing dissipation, but was always behindhand in money mat- 
ters, and terribly discontented v/ith his lot, so that poor Mrs. 
Clybourne was continually finessing to keep him out of debt 
and to get him some employment which did not necessitate 
manual or mental labor, to both of which he had a fixed dis- 
taste. He had had several secretary- and a^^acA^-ships, which 
he would have disgraced if anything had been required of him ; 
and was now filling a starving Consulate in Italy, where his 
mother flattered herself he. was safe at least for two or three 
years to come. 

And as Mrs. Clybourne’s ambition had been disappointed in 
the advancement of her son, so had it been thwarted in the 
marriage of her eldest girl. The eldest Miss Clybourne had 
pro¥ed neither a beauty nor a genius, and all her mother’s 
clever management failed to make her anything but common- 
place. She was always well dressed ; there were desperate 
pinchings at home to let her appear properly abroad ; but season 
after season in town passed by, summer after summer spent at 
desirable places of resort, and she was still unprovided for. It 
seemed incredible that such well laid plans should fail, such 
excellent tact go unrewarded, when so many weaker people 
succeeded every day ; but, indeed, Susie Clybourne was a heavy 
boat to steer, a Dutch lugger of the fourteenth century, and 
her pilot was unable to bring her into port by any of the rules 
of modern navigation. 

At last, just trembling on the verge of twenty-seven, a happy 
chance averted the disgrace impending — a happy chance, 
aided by her mother’s faithful and ingenious endeavoriy 


THE CLYBOUKNES. 


67 


A dull old widower came home from South America with a 
respectable little fortune, and was soon made to see he needed 
a new wife. Susie Clybourne was put in his way, and he mar- 
ried her. But he was rather a poor bargain, even for her; he 
was almost a fool, and had no talent for taking care of himself 
or his money, much less of his wife and children ; he lost half 
his property before he had been married a year, and would 
brobably have lost the other half before they had been married 
two, if his mother-in-law had not interposed and looked into 
his affairs herself. So that the poor lady had now not only 
her son but her son-in-law and his stupid wife and increasing 
babies on her mind ; and no one could deny she carried weight 
in life. 

It was no wonder, then, that upon Madeline, the youngest of 
the three, her hopes should have been centred. She felt she 
had a trump now in her hand, which was to repay her for 
her long-continued run of ill-success. Madeline was a beauty, 
and clever enough to have shone if she had not been a 
beauty ; and the prudent mother gave her nights and days to 
the study of plans for her campaign. 

Her campaign was just opening; everthing looked favorable. 
To be sure, she was rather younger than Mrs. Cly bourne’s 
good sense would have recommended, but then there were 
reasons to set over against that. Susie’s waning had taught 
her the shortness and high price of youth ; and as for Ma- 
deline’s character, it was more formed now than Susie’s had 
been at twenty -five. Passion, imprudence; well, she meant 
never to have her out of her own sight; if she were watch- 
ful, there would be no trouble from those dangerous things 
• — the feelings. Seventeen was early to confront the world, 
but Madeline was clever beyond her years, and would not fail 
to fight the battle well. 

She had known, ever since she came to be capable of 
thinking for herself, what she was intended to accomplish 


68 


THE CLYBOUEI^ES. 


what was expected of her by her mother and by all who 
were interested in her. She was to do with her good looks 
what her brother had failed to do with his indifferent brains, 
and what her sister had not had the force to do — and that 
was, to better, in some decided way, the fortunes of the 
family. She was to marry, that was understood ; tacitly, of 
course ; for refinement and good taste ruled at home, and such 
plans are not to be talked about. She looked to no other 
future, prepared herself for no other contingency. She had 
no idea of being mercenary, of marrying other than “ as her 
heart inclined she was full of enthusiasm and of innocence ; 
she dreamed the happiest dreams, wherein walked the master 
of her heart, crowning her days with the prosperity and 
plenty that her childhood had felt the absence of. Young 
heiresses dream of cottages, young cottagers of palaces. Ma 
deline had felt the pinching of poverty at times too sharply 
to be enamored of its romantic features. She basked in 
golden dreams, no less pure and innocent than other chil- 
dren’s are, for being golden. That lord of her fancy whom 
any day might bring, was to give her everything she had 
not — everything that made life warm and beautiful ; he was 
to satisfy her soul, to gratify her ambition, to give her the 
thousand pleasures she had so long sighed to have. 

She had been, pretty well educated — as well as her mothei 
could afford ; and had been brought up in many ways sen- 
sibly and thriftily. Mrs. Clybourne’s cottage was a model 
of taste and refinement, and the family ways were regular 
and well arranged. Madeline had always had her household 
duties, and had performed them wonderfully well till the 
opening of the campaign. Then her mother had relaxed in 
her requirements and had absolved her from many of her 
duties, though offering no reason for the change. But Ma- 
deline knew wlnat it meant; she was ready for the market now^ 
and she must be kept in the finest possible condition. 


THE CLYBOURNES. 


69 


These were ugly words, and she did not say them even 
to herself. She respected her mother, and had been brought 
up to believe that everything she did was right ; she never 
dreamed of doubting that this was right, and exactly “as every- 
body” did. For at seventeen it is hard to realize that “ every- 
body” can be in the wrong. 

Mrs. Sherman’s return to her country place was a very 
happy event to Mrs. Clybourne. She foresaw great advantages 
to Madeline if her favor could be secured ; and thoiio-h she 
wished very well to the little girl at the Parsonage, she was 
disturbed by the good impression she had seemed to make on 
the evening of her debut at the Hill, and she wished, a little 
selfishly, that she could have been kept in the background for 
a year or two at least. - 

Of Dr. Catherwood she was somewhat distrustful, too ; she 
admired him a good deal, as everybody else did, but dreaded 
having Madeline see too much of him. Young girls, she 
knew, were very apt to fancy men of just his age and manner; 
and in a country town like that, where people were so much 
thrown upon each other for amusement, she foresaw great dan- 
ger to her daughter’s peace of mind if he should be at all 
attracted by her, as he evidently was not a marrying man, or 
at least the kind of a marrying man that it would do for 
Madeline to think about at all. 

Then this Colonel Steele whom Mrs. Sherman had at pre- 
sent at the Hill, it would be necessary to warn Madeline 
against him, for he was in pursuit of a fortune for himself, and 
could not think of marrying l^r, however much he might ♦ 
admire her. The other one, tho holder of Christine’s bouquet, 
was nothing but a miserable literary creature ; Madeline had . 
too much good sense to listen at all to him ; but she was only 
seventeen, and the man had such a manner of devotion with 
every woman whom he met. 

Mrs. Clybourne’s troubles had begun, she thought with a 


10 


THE CLYBOUENES. 


sigh, as she stole in to look at her pretty daughter as she slept. 
She wished sincerely she were in pantalettes and short frocks 
still, and that all this wear and tear of mind had not come 
upon her. It was a heavy cross ; really her path in life, she 
thought, had been marked out by a very rigid hand. 

But she was still resolved to sacrifice herself to her duty, 
come what might ; she had as magnificent a feeling of its 
sacredness as if her labor had been to provide for eternity 
instead o-f this short and uncertain state. 


Christine’s benefactress. 


n 


■>- 


CHAPTER X. 

Christine’s benefactress. 

“ She bears a purse ; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty.’* 

Mebrt Wives of Windsob. 

Dr. Catherwood went into tlie parlor when he came down 
from Julian’s room ; he took a place beside Madeline and made 
himself very fascinating to her. Mrs. Sherman began imme- 
diately to flagellate him ; now, had Df. Upham sent him to 
bring away Christine at twelve last night ? 

No, Dr. Upham said in a bewildered way, he did not remem- 
ber having done it ; no, he thought not. 

There ! and there was a great clamor, and Dr. Catherwood 
found himself au bout de sa patience ; and then Mrs. Sherman 
wanted to know, apropos^ why Colonel Steele had been so 
negligent as not to tell her that he knew Dr. Catherwood. 
They were old friends, she heard through Leslie, and yet, 
though he had been three days at the Hill, and had heard her 
speak of Dr. Catherwood twenty times, he had not said he 
knew him. She did not think he deserved to have him asked 
to dinner, but nevertheless she would do it. How was it, 
would he come to-day ? 

Dr. Catherwood was not many minutes in showing her it 
was impossible for him to do himself that pleasure, having an 
appointment some ten miles distant for the very hour she 
dined. 

Christine felt a conviction that he would have had an 
appointment at a great distance for any hour she could have 
named. 


72 


Christine’s benefactress. 


Well, then, tant pis pour lui ; lie would miss the society of 

the two prettiest girls in , for she was going to take 

Madeline and Christine home with her, hongrk malgre^ and 
Messrs. Steele and Leslie might congratulate themselves that 
they would have no rival. 

Christine looked frightened and pleaded Julian, but her father 
said, “ Why not, my dear ?” and left her no resource but Dr 
Catherv/ood, who was not in the mood to help her. She 
looked at him, and he looked away and talked to Madeline. 
Her father reiterated his advice, Mrs. Sherman was vehement, 
the gentlemen were urgent, and poor Christine went miserably 
up-stairs to dress herself. 

When she left the room, Mrs. Sherman said to the Rector in 
a tone of much apparent feeling : “ Lovely young creature ! 
Doctor, do you not feel weighed down with the responsibility 
of providing for her suitably ?” 

Dr. Upham raised his eyes in thoughtful surprise, and said : 

How, Madam ?” 

He had never doubted he was providing for her suitably, and 
this was something of a shock to him. 

“ Why,” said Mrs. Sherman, hesitatingly, “ I mean as regards 
her future. Just at her age, you know, one must look forward, 
one must be cautious. Young girls make such rash choices ; it 
is so necessary that they should be guided. Marriage, you see, 
is such a lasting good or evil to them.” 

The bewilderment went from Dr. Upham’s face, and a deep 
sadness settled on it ; his eyes sought the ground, and for some 
moments he did not speak. 

“ Christine is a mere child,” he said, at length. “ I have never 
thought of the possibility of her marrying for years to come. 

I do not think I need be disturbed about it yet ; she seems 
almost a baby to me now.” 

“ Ah ! seventeen is not a baby, my dear sir. Seventeen is a 
woman ; seventeen falls in love and marries. Why, poor Helena 


Christine’s benefactress. 


73 


was not so old, you know — not so old by a year, when she threw 
herself away so sadly.” 

There was a moment’s pause ; if the speaker had been of or- 
dinary make, she could not have resumed in the face of the 
father’s pained expression. Madeline and Dr. Gather wood had 
ceased talking and were listening half involuntarily, as she went 
on in an earnest tone, bent simply on carrying through some 
favorite plan : 

“ Wc cannot blame poor Helena for her choice, nor you, my 
dear sir, for not preventing such a sacrifice ; you could not, no 
father can, no man indeed. It needs a mother’s care, a woman’s 
tact, to guide and influence, not openly control, a young girl’s 
fancies ; and pardon me, I long to see our dear Christine safe 
out of the reach of such ruin as her elder sister’s. I love the 
child already. She is a gem ; she must shine, my dear sir ; you 
cannot hide her. Do not try to, only be cautious and act ad- 
visedly. She must see the world ; let her see it with a friend 
beside her experienced and faithful ; let her have a woman’s 
care in those temptations and trials of the heart that none but 
women know. Think what it would have been to your poor 
lost Helena to have had such guidance and such companion- 
ship.” 

The clergyman pressed his hand hastily before his eyes as if 
it gave him too much pain to listen, and yet as if he dared not 
bid her to desist. She began to apprehend that she had gone 
as far as it was decorous to go, and she hastily concluded : 

“ You know, my dear sir, I am too blunt and honest to go 
smoothly in the world. I am not a diplomat ; I speak from my 
heart. I am all impulse. As far as you will trust your little 
daughter to me, I am her friend, I am your friend. I will 
make every effort to shield and protect her as I would shield 
and protect my own daughter, if I had one. My house is her 
second home if she will accept it; all the pleasures and ad- 
vantages I can command are at her service. Do not say yes or 

4 


74 


Christine’s benefactress. 


no to me : only remember my offer and the earnestness with 
which I make it; and whenever you can in any point accept it, 
reflect that you are doing me the greatest kindness you could 
have it m your power to do.” 

The woman of impulse got up, for Christine, with her bonnet 
on, was coming down the stairs. She gave both her hands to 
the Rector and looked at him through eyes that swam w’ith 
tears. She had talked herself into the belief that she loved 
Christine, and was going to save her ; she was quite melted 
with her own eloquence ; besides, she always cried extremely 
easy, particularly after she had been up late, and was more than 
ordinarily nervous from any cause whatever. 

Dr. Upham did not attempt to answer her, but he took her 
hand in evident agitation, and looked away from Christine, who 
entered as if the new thoughts connected with her were quite 
unbearable. 

And when she had been swept away by the gay party, and 
Dr. Catherwood, throwing himself upon his horse, had gallopped 
off in an opposite direction, the Rector sank back in his study- 
chair, and lived over again in bitter thought the remorse and 
anguish of his first deceived hope. 

Christine, then, had come to years of womanhood ; his pale 
blossom was flushing into bloom ; his little nun was attracting 
the glances of the world; his motherless child had come to the 
same point of danger that had proved fatal to her sister, lie 
almost wished she were lying with the others in the quiet 
churchyard, “ under the long grass of years,” her soul safe with 
her mother’s in the paradise of God — her place vacant at his 
side, but her companionship insured to him through the long 
eternity of heaven. The bitter thought of what might be in 
store fer her in life, took away his faith and strength ; the re* 
inembrance of that dark death-bed palsied his powers of hope. 

He had lost one child, lost her — he faced it then in all iti 
blackness; how should he live to see the mortal peril of 


Christine’s benefactress. 


75 


another ? How could he shield her ? Where hide her from 
the danger that advanced upon her ? They said rightly he was 
no fit guardian for her; having let one perish, how should he 
presume still to keep the other in his charge? It was true he 
was unfit ; but to whom give her up ? To this new friend of 
whom he knew so little ? Could she be better to her than her 
father? She was a woman, he was a man, sad and old as well, 
he was so far removed from her in every way, he hardly under- 
stood her, he could not hope to guide her heart. 

But why need she marry ? Why was it inevitable she should 
leave ever her quiet home, her safe humility ? Ah ! why had 
they found her out ? 

He would speak to her, would warn her. 

What ! take all her childish innocence away ? Turn her 
simple youth to careful womanhood ? No, no, my little girl ; 
the years full soon 

• 

“will bring tlie inevitable yoke.” 

“ Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 

And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as lifel” 

Let her he simple still ; let the dark day be unanticipated— 
the evil, evil hour of danger unprovoked. She might have 
this friendship, but he could not give her up to it; he would 
watch her as well as he knew how, and keep her from the 
world as long as possible. 

Then, when she went into it, he would sanctify the air about 
k:r with his prayers. 


^6 


THE miller’s family. 


CHAPTER XL 

THE miller’s family. 

“ Qui est bien, qu’U s’y tienne.” 

Harry Gilmore was the hete noire among the boys of ; 

he was the wickedest and wildest of them all, and he had been 
little Julian Upham’s chosen comrade for the past two years. 
It was a great scandal to the critical people that the minister 
should let his grandson keep sucb company ; but, indeed, the 
minister did not have much to say about it. It was a law of 
ancient date that Julian should never, under any circumstances, 
have anything to do with that young outlaw ; but it had long 
since gone into oblivion, and was an idle record on the statute- 
book. Julian was an exceptional child, and could not be bound 
by laws. “Nae wHl he minded but his ane,” and that led him 
straight into the society of the miller’s boy, and into the wildest 
kind of brawls with him also. They quarrelled like cata- 
mounts; they gave each other “bloody noses and cracked 
crowns,” and yet they seemed unable to live out of each other’s 
sight. 

They were both ba*d boys, but public opinion was divided as ' 
to which was worst. Harry, with all his wildness, had not 
much talent for deceit, and so came oftenest to grief; w'hile 
Julian was much fonder of telling lies than of doing anything 
else, and generally came out of scrapes much cleaner than his 
comrade. One was wicked with the wickedness of a child, the 
otlicr was vicious with the vice of a matured mind. 

They were very near the same age ; but Harry, brown and 


THE MILLER’S FAMILY. 


77 


ruddy, was a bead a.ud shoulders taller than his compauiou, and 
looked a well grown lad, while the other seemed still only a 
curled darling of the nursery. It was in vain Crescens and the 
household servants counselled him to fight with gentlemen’s 
sons, if be must fight with anybody ; and it was in vain every 
obstacle was placed in the way of his intercourse with Harry ; 
Harry haunted the Parsonage garden day and night, and Julian 
was as much at home in the miller’s house as Harry was 
himself. 

The miller’s house was a very good one to have the entrea 
of ; it must be confessed ; there were always the very best 
imaginable cookies in the pantry, and pickles that beggared all 
description, ’oesides cider in the cellar and an unlimited store 
of nuts. 

The miller was a mild, easy man, from whom Harry got his 
blue eyes and his forgiving disposition ; and his wife was a stir- 
ring, energetic, high-tempered woman, from whom the boy 
inherited the spirit that was always plunging him into trouble 
and making him restless under authority and rebellious under 
chastisement. He was the only inheritor of these incongruous 
qualities; the hope and ambition of his slow-thinking father 
and of his vigorous-minded mother, notwithstanding the trouble 
he had given them. His father stroked his chin mildly and 
prophesied he’d come all right by and by ; but his mother fret- 
ted terribly under the disgrace of his continual misdoings, 
though she always took his part when he was punished, and 
encouraged in him the fatal idea that he was not justly dealt 
with. She felt a continual distrust of her superiors, and 
brought Harry up to feel that rich people were his natural ene- 
mies, and that he had the same right they had to be of conse- 
quence. 

The fact was, the misfortune of the miller’s wife was, that she 
was the miller’s wife. She was a tali’, handsome, black-eyed 
woman, with a will and temper that needed a stronger hand 


78 


THE miller’s family. 


than Richard Gilmore’s to keep down, and she went through life 
bearing the burden of her great mistake, fretting at her lot, try- 
ing to make up for his short-comings, and corroding the peace of 
their home by the suggestions of her ambition. Ambition is a 
very high-bred vice to get into a miller’s family, but it is well 
known to be a very insidious one, and not at all particular as to 
the company it keeps. Phoebe Gilmore loved her husband, but 
the was stronger and more developed than he was in every 
point, and went beyond him, :and was unsatisfied, and wore her^ 
self out in fretting at his deficiencies. If she had been born in 
a diflferent station, she might have been a great woman, for she 
had great qualities ; if she had married another man in the 
same station in which she was, she might have been a happy 
woman, for she had strong affections. 

Her restless energy had some good effects, however ; it stimu- 
lated her husband to exertions he would never have made with- 
out it ; she gave him no peace till he had paid off his old debts 
and begun to lay up something for his boy. The mill and house 
belonged to the Sherman estate, and the agent being well dis- 
posed towards Richard, it had been let to him on easy terms, so 
that he was, all things considered, doing well for himself, and 
his wife ought to have been satisfied. 

Mrs. Gilmore looked with a doubtful eye upon Harry’s inti- 
macy with Julian; sometimes she fancied it would be a good 
thing for him, and help him to rise a little when they were both 
grown up ; but more times she condemned it in her stubborn 
pride as a misfortune to the boy in every way, an intercourse 
only destined to last while they were children, and to be repu- 
diated when Julian was old enough to discriminate high friends 
from low ones. She had played when she was a school-girl with 
Julian’s mother, and had been treated with contempt by the fino 
young lady when she w'as grown up. Therefore she knew what 
was in store for Harry, unless she managed to get him a good 
education and start him in the world respectably and early. 


THE miller’s family. 


79 


She was always suspecting a prejudice against Harry at the Par- 
sonage, and could not believe that the objections entertained 
there against their intercourse had foundation in anything but 
the difference of their station. 

It was in vain that Dr. TJpham repeatedly explained to her 
that the boys had a bad influence upon each other; that Julian 
was as much, if not more at fault than Harry ; and that if they 
were differently disposed regarding mischief, there was no one’ 
child whom he would have welcomed as a playmate for his 
grandson more cordially than hers. But she could not be con- 
vinced, or rather could not stay convinced, two hours after she 
was out of the good Doctor’s presence. She treated Julian with 
severity when he came to the mill, and forbade Harry to go 
near the Parsonage ; but she might have saved herself the 
trouble, for all she said and did went for nothing with the boys. 
They robbed birds’ nests in company, they filched apples, they 
scrawled on walls, they unhinged gates, they plundered melon 
patches, they murdered cats, always antagonistic and only held 
together by a common propensity for doing wrong. The Rector 
was grieved by his grandson’s lawless ways, but he looked upon 
them with something of the miller’s mild philosophy ; while 
Christine, though in a very different way, took them alfnost as 
much to heart as Harry’s mother did. She was terribly dis« 
turbed at the first symptoms of his perverse inclinations, and as 
they developed themselves more strongly, she was frightened 
and sore at heart. Her sensitive conscience was in an agony 
for his sins continually ; she felt she did not understand him, 
that she had no influence upon him, that she was not doing her 
duty to him, while her father’s composure made her feel she 
must exaggerate the danger, and that she was in fault in some 
way not to be as hopeful as he was. 

From Dr. Catherwood, when at last she had brought herself 
to speak to him of faults that, with the true mother instinct, she 
had tried to hide from all the world, she had received a great 


80 


THE miller’s family. 


deal of comfort. He had told her not to try to understand boy- 
nature, not to be horrified at the enormities it displayed ; to take 
it as a certain truth that boys are judged by a different measure 
from their softer-hearted sisters, and do not come to years of 
responsibility half as soon. He assured her he had spent years 
of his life robbing birds’ nests, unhinging gates, plundering 
melon patches, and had had no warnings from his conscience of 
its sinfulness; boys’ consciences were so curiously constructed, 
no woman could ever possibly hope to understand their work- 
ings. Christine had been very much relieved by this confession 
of his early wickedness, but had asked doubtfully if he had told 
falsehoods, too, without any provocation or occasion, and been 
vicious and disrespectful and unloving? He had answered 
rather evasively, but had managed to satisfy her, and she had 
felt, after that, as if half the burden were removed. 

He did not manage to satisfy himself, however ; he saw in 
the boy Julian indications of a spirit he understood, from per- 
sonal experience, almost as little as his young aunt did. There 
was a warp somewhere in him, a distortion that time was not 
correcting, an elfin nature growing up stealthily beside the 
boy-nature and whispering evil to it night and day, twisting 
and dv\^arfing and marring it. The poison of his early child- 
hood had entered every vein ; half he had inherited in his 
mother’s blood, half she had engrafted upon his impressionable 
infancy. In body as in mind he was strange and complicated ; 
needing the tenderest care, the firmest control, the coolest 
judgment; he absorbed insensibly the time and thought of all 
around him ; ungrateful and unloving, ho yet bound all to him 
with the. strongest ties. His delicacy, his helplessness during 
his frequent illnesses, his great beauty, his inexplicable vagaries 
his very elfishness, made him fascinating to every one who 
was brought in contact witli him. The townspeople called 
him “little Prince,” the schoolboys jeered him for his fine 
clothes and yellow curls, the old gossips shook their heads 


THE miller’s family. 


ei 

and said hard things about his future ; but one and all looked 
after him with involuntary admiration, and with few excep* 
tions bent before his will when it came in contact with theii 


own, 


4 * 


$3 


THE rector’s resignation. 


CHAPTER XIT. 

THE rector’s resignation. 

“ Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become, 

As they draw near to their eternal home ; 

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, 

That stand upon the threshold of the new.” 

Waller. 

“Catherwood,” said the Rector, dropping absently a second 
lump of sugar in his cup of cafe noir and drawing it towards 
him as he leaned back in his chair, “ I have concluded it is 
right; you will not doubt me when I say I had a hard fight 
to come to it.” 

‘'To come to what, ray dear sir?” asked Dr. Catherwood, 
looking up with a little wonder. 

They were all alone, and Dr. Catherwood could not quite 
decide from his companion’s tone whether some after-dinner 
confidence was coming, or merely the statement of some newly 
defined principle in ecclesiastical polity. Christine was away, 
taking dinner at the Hill ; it was only a fortnight since the 
first one, and this was the fourth or fifth ; by which it will 
be seen that Mrs. Sherman had had good success in her nego- 
tiations with the Rector. Julian had slid out of the room with 
his pockets full of desirable plunder from the table soon after 
the dessert came in ; the maid-servant having brought in the 
coffee, had at last retired, and the two gentlemen were left alono 
in the pleasant dining-room. The windows opened upon the 
garden, now in all the beauty of the midsummer ; the furniture 
of the room was old-fashioned and clumsy ; so was the service 


THE RECTOR’S RESIGNATION. 


83 


of the table, but rich and elegant in an old-fashioned way. 
There was but one decanter of wine before them, but its odor 
and its color showed it had “ grown fat on Lusitanian summers.” 
There was fruit in a heavy silver dish, and the coffee was 
served in dainty little cups of India china. And the waitress 
had put a stand of cigars on the table, and there was every- 
thing propitious for an undisturbed luxurious hour of quiet. 

“A hard fight to come to what, my dear sir?” said the 
guest, with interest and perhaps a little shade of apprehen- 
sion. 

“ To come to the decision that it is my duty to give up and 
let them send for Saul. Nay more, to go and fetch him to 
them, and pour the oil upon his head wdth my own hands, 
I begin to distrust myself sadly, Catherwood ; perhaps I nave held 
out too long ; but up to the present time I have felt I really 
was not selfish. Now I see we must not be Providence for 
people ; we have no right to say they shall be saved our way ; 
who knows, there may be something new will touch them ; 
there is a great deal I have left unsaid ; perhaps some younger 
man can say it better. At all events, he shall have the chance ; 
I am not any longer to be in the way of those who ask a newer 
and more stirring method ; I have sent for my vestry ; in half 
an hour I must go and meet them, and leave you to your cigai 
alone.” 

“But, my dear sir,” said his companion earnestly, “are you 
sure this is well digested? Are you not doing this because it is 
a sacrifice, and because you feel you would rather err on the 
safe side to yourselfi Make yourself quite sure of that, I beg 
of you, before you publish this resolution. One is so apt, my 
good sir, to be in a hurry to clear one’s self of a temptation 
even at the risk of giving a wrong judgment for the benefit of 
others. Consider you are dealing with minds that are as 
children’s in comparison with your own ; do not let their impor- 
tunity or their vacillation influence you unduly. This is a most 


84 


THE EECTOr’s EESIGNATION. 


important step. Have you been able to look at it, putting 
yourself entirely out of mind ?' 

“ It is my belief I have done so ; I believe that I am doing 
right. The strongest of us can ask no more than light enough 
to do that faithfully. You know it is not a new thought with 
me. I have been looking at it from a thousand points of view. 

have been studying it every day since I first began to see I 
did not satisfy the younger and more unstable of my flock, and 
now I can no longer feel doubt enough to permit me to remain 
their pastor. There is a great deal of talent and earnestness in 
the Church, Catherwood, and there is no reason that we should 
not get a man who can do them all good ; they need a stimu- 
lant, perhaps* I myself may be better for a change.” 

“ But, my dear sir,” said his companion, in an anxious tone, 
“ you are too old for such a change as this — you will not under- 
take another charge — you cannot bear this transplanting at your 
age. You cannot mean to leave this house — the comforts you 
have gathered round you — your daughter’s home — the home of 
all who have gone before you. It is not right ; believe me, it 
is not.” 

A shade of agitation crossed the Rector’s face, but presently 
gave way again to the calm of his habitual look. 

“It will depend upon my successor, somewhat, whether I am 
compelled to leave my home. I shall not undertake another 
charge ; I feel myself unequal to it, and I would fain stay in this 
house, if any arrangement can be made to do it. No doubt I 
have a right to ; it is virtually Christine’s, but it ought to be the 
Parsonage if a man of family comes to keep it up. I shall tell 
them so. I mean to give it up to the Church. There is no 
other suitable residence in the place. It is useless to talk about 
it. Christine is a brave little girl; she will not make it any 
harder for me. No doubt it is well to crucify this cowardice — • 
this tenderness for the past — this living on the memories of 
what God has taken. I doubt if it is healthy ; perhaps it has 


THE rector’s resignation. 


85 


been bad for Christine. I am afraid she is not like other 
children of her age ; she needs life ; she has had only shadows 
heretofore. Perhaps it will be better for her to be taken away 
from here ; perhaps it will be as well for me. The Lord that 
has been wise in the past will be merciful in the future.” 

There was a long silence. Dr. Catherwood sat looking fix- 
edly before him, his glass of wine untasted at his side. The 
Rector remained motionless for a long while ; at last raised his 
coflfee to his lips and drank it off; then rising, said, “Shall I 
find you here when I come back ?” while he glanced towards the 
clock. 

He was not very attentive to his guest’s answer ; it was half- 
past three, the hour for the vestry meeting, and*, taking up his 
hat, he went out of the room. Dr. Catherwood pressed his 
hand before his eyes for a moment with an impatient, gloomy 
look ; then rising, walked over to the window, and watched his 
host slowly following the path that led across the garden to the 
churchyard gate. His step was heavy and unwilling, his face 
sad beyond expression. He looked down the sunny walks, and 
seemed to hear again the voices of his lost children playing 
there. He pushed aside the honeysuckle that drooped across 
the gateway — the honeysuckle that his young wife’s hand had 
planted; and then his eye fell on the grass-grown mounds 
within, sleeping in the shadow of the church — clear beyond 
belief to him, sacred as no other earth could be. 

Ah ! the children of strangers would soon be playing among 
the garden walks ; the eyes of those who had no tender memo- 
ries to soften them, would daily fall upon those grassy graves ; 
the feet that had trod that churchyard path for forty faithful 
years, must turn into new and unaccustomed ways. But, 
patience ! This land of shadows will soon be past ; the abiding 
City, the better country, is not far off; an earthly home— that 
is, an inn ; a heavenly one — that is, Love’s blessed rest and 
sanctuary. 


86 


DE. UPHAM’S SUCCBSSOB. 


CHAPTER XIIL 

DR. UPHAm’s successor. 

“ roi Mt mort — Dive le roi /” 

It was the third Sunday after Trinity, a beautiful July day, and 
the new minister was to make his debut ; consequently the 
church was very full. Mrs. Sherman was in a flutter of enthu- 
siasm, for the new minister was a protegh of hers, and she 
arrived earlier than she had ever been known to arrive at 
church before. ^ 

The Clybourne pew was full, Susie and her husband and two 
of the little girls having driven over from their country home at 
B to hear the young minister’s first sermon. This was a 
proof of the importance of the occasion, for it was a long drive 
in warm weather, and Susie had not often force enough to get 
herself ready in time. Her husband had very much the features 
and expression of an old sheep ; Madeline despised him too 
much to sit in the pew with him, and was impolite enough to go 
over to Mrs. Sherman’s the moment he came in, shaking herself 
clear of the two children, who grabbed her unceremoniously, 
and passing Susie with a little nod. She was at the age that 
cannot understand that stupid people have any right to live. 
Her mother watched her with a grave face ; she rather admired 
her self-will and high spirit, it seemed so young, and from her 
point of view was almost picturesque; but still she dreaded its 
effects. 

Madeline was not only very perverse about her broth er^in-1 aw, 
but she had a very well developed contempt for many of the 


DE. UPHAM’S SUCCESSOE. 


81 


decencies of modern life ; among others, for that of going tc 
church on week days, teaching in parish schools, and visiting 
sick old women. She did not take kindly to the refined semi 
religious fashionable young-lady life that was held up to her, 
and Mrs. Clybourne had ceased to insist upon her following it. 
She generally came to church on Sunday morning, and spent 
the afternoon in writing letters. She laughed at the old women 
and the Dorcas work-basket, and did not make it a point of 
conscience to conceal the fact that Dr. Dpham’s sermons made 
her very sleepy, and that she thought the service was into- 
lerably long. 

It must be confessed she had not very prepossessing forms of 
religious character about her. Susie had always been orthodox 
about the old women and the parish school, and her brother-in- 
law was a vestryman, warden^ or something of that sort. Mrs. 
Sherman was a sentimental, emotional, high-church woman; 
and as for her mother — Maddy respected and loved her mother, 
but her practice did not inspire her with much enthusiasm for 
her religious faith. 

She had always had, though, a vague, groping hope strug- 
gling upwards through the vanities and follies of her soul, that 
there was something beautiful and good in religion after all, and 
that she should some time reach to the knowledge of it. But 
something very different from the religion that she saw about 
her. 

She wondered what the young clergyman would be like ; she 
was prepared to ridicule him very much and to . make him ter- 
ribly afraid of her ; she had given Mrs. Sherman warning that 
she meant to make his life a burden to him ; nevertheless she 
thought with satisfaction that her toilette was very happy, and 
that the Sherman pew was more prominent than any in the 
church except the Rector’s. 

In the Rector’s pew sat Dr. Upham himself; the painful 
nightmare of exile had passed, and he still found himself uiidis- 


88 


DK. TJPHAM’S StJCCESSOK. 


turbed in his old home. Ilis resignation had surprised all the 
disaffected out of their plottings against him, and had roused all 
the loyal into enthusiasm, and they had unanimously refused to 
accept it. This had not shaken his resolution, however ; he 
only yielded to their solicitation far enough to agree to keep the 
parsonage, and to consider himself as resting temporarily from 
the duties of his charge while his successor occupied the pulpit 
for a year or two on trial. 

The Rector acceded with his benevolent mild smile to this 
view of the case ; but he knew his day was over, and that his 
work was ended there. Indeed the animation with which they 
set about finding a suitable successor did not look very much as 
if he were meant to be only temporary. There was plotting 
and counter-plotting, and wire-pulling and intriguing, among the 
friends of the opposing eandidates, for the eharge of St. Philip’s 
was considered a very eomfortable and altogether a desira- 
ble eharge in elerical cireles, and ever since the news of Dr. Up- 
ham’s resignation had been afioat, there had been many disen- 
gaged eyes turned affectionately towards it. Two weeks had 
been spent in wrangling over generalities, two weeks more in a 
close race between a first-class high- church elocutionist and a 
popular evangelical revolutionist. Both these, however, were 
thrown over by the sudden and unexpected withdrawal of the 
Sherman infiuenCe, which was fixed upon a new and undis- 
cussed candidate — a “youth to fortune and to fame unknown,” 
new-fledged from the seminary, just trying his wings on a short 
flight. Before any one knew exactly what was under discussion 
he was called, had accepted, and was expected to arrive among 
them. It was all done in a masterly way ; the lancet was so 
sharp the defrauded majority had not ic\t any pain till every- 
thing was over, and they found they had been cheated out o. 
any voice in the affair. Owing to this fermentation, the young 
divine was not destined to step into a very peacefal parish ; but 
of the disturbed state of feeling among his paris'hioners he was 


DR. UPIIAM’S SUC:CESSOR. 


89 


kept in happy ignorance till he became intimate enongh with 
them to hear the story from each one with embellishments, and to 
be warned against every person with whom he had anything to do. 

But this was the awakening; on the morning of his first com- 
ing into the old church, with its well filled pews, its venerable 
altar, its open sunshiny windows, and its green embowering shade 
around, the Reverend Mr. Brockhulst felt as if the lines had 
fallen to him in pleasant places, and as if he had, indeed, a 
goodly heritage. He had about as clear an idea of the duties 
and trials of a parish priest, as a young bride has of the duties 
and trials of housekeeping before she enters on them. The 
young bride has a general idea of a bright fire, cheerful lamp, 
flowers upon the table, pink curtains in her dressing-room, and 
company to dinner every day ; the young clergyman had a 
vague picture in his mind of an ivied porch, a rustic flock, 
sweet babies to be christened, hoary-headed pilgrims to be laid 
in churchyard ground, Christmas feasts at which his presence 
would be the crowning joy. Lenten services in which pastor and 
people both would go down upon their knees in penitence and 
chant the Miserere in a minor key. He was but twenty-three 
years old, ordained only a month before, a student up to the 
very moment of his ordination ; of an enthusiastic poetic mind, 
and as ignorant of human nature as if he had been Robinson 
Crusoe’s eldest son. 

Evervthing was new to him but study, life, action, the face 
of nature ; everything wore the glory and the freshness of a 
dream. He had a good deal of talent, and in the seminary 
was looked upon as very promising ; he had been religious and 
pure-minded from his childhood, and had never had a thought 
of any other career than the one for which he had been brought 
up. He was unpractical, which was not his fault, considering 
he had never had to do with anything but theories; he had an 
ideal, which was natural, but he was wedded to it, which was 
unfortunate. 


90 


DE. UPHAm’s SUCCESSOE. 


His voice was perfect, lie read to the admiration of his listen* 
ers; his mariner was earnest, naive, and touching; his face was 
boyish, delicate, and beautiful. What he had to say was very 
well, rather young and a good deal decorated, but the voice 
and the manner and the face made it like the message of an 
angel, and the congregation went home enchanted. With 
some few exceptions ; there* were several tiresomely critical 
people who brushed aside the graceful drapery of manner, and 
looked at the bare thought, and said “ Well ?” in an interroga- 
tive and doubtful tone. There were other practical ones who 
said they had not heard any news, and some, again, who had 
grown so used to the old Rector’s quiet, thoughtful, suggestive 
sermons, that they could not get in love at once with anything 
so different. Still, all felt the influence of the new minister’s 
earnestness, all yielded more or less to ~ the magnetism of his 
W’arm enthusiasm, and all went home with strong though 
diverse impressions of his character. 


ST. PHILIP’S NEW HAN^)S. 


91 


CHAPTER Xiy. 

ST. PHILIP’S IN NEW HANDS. 

“ More belongs to riding than a pair of boots.” 

Reforms began ; Mrs. Sherman was inspired with new life 
by the tide of excitement rushing into the recent vacuum in 
the church ; she found herself full of occupation, and conse- 
quently much happier than she ordinarily was. She felt that 
the whole church rested on her shoulders; she wondered how 
it had ever existed before she took it up. She always spoke of 
Dr. Upham as her poor dear old friend, and of the present 
incumbent as her beloved pastor. 

She aimed to make herself popular with the people of the 
town, and visited those whom she had never visited before. 
She played the gracious lady right and left, and made herself 
conspicuous in all charitable matters. She reorganized the 
Sunday-school, remodelled the Dorcas enterprise, and made a 
complete bouleversement in the matter of the choir. She also 
instituted great changes in the hours of service ; the old bell, 
which for forty years had rung its daily summons at the com- 
fortable and common sensical hour of nine, now yawned out a 
call to prayers at six ; the Sunday evening service was changed 
from four to five, to accommodate the Hill ; while most of the 
humbler worshippers of St. Philip’s had to stay at home to boil 
the kettle for the evening meal. She swept the besom of de- 
struction through the chancel, and gave the vestry no rest day 
or night till they consented to allow her to remodel it— and she 
did everything with the air and manner of a pioneer and as if 


02 


ST.- Philip’s in new hands. 


nobody had ever done anything before her, and made the peo« 
pie who had been in the church for years feel exceedingly irate 
and uncomfortable. 

Still, only one dared openly to oppose her; one who would 
have had the . moral courage to have opposed a locomotive under 
a full head of steam if she had conceived it to be getting in her 
way at all. This lady, who had long been a leader in the af- 
fairs secular and spiritual of St. Philip’s, named herself Yan 
Riper. She was a widow, without any children, with very lit- 
tle money, and with as few inducements to continue a residence 
in the flesh as can be imagined. Nobody entertained the least 
affection for her, and she seemed quite free from any tender- 
nesses of that sort herself. Still, she did a great deal of good in 
her own hard way, and was considered generally a very excel- 
lent person. She was as strong as a horse, and could stand 
from morning till night cutting out work for the Dorcas, or 
measuring school children for their clothes. Her mind was as 
tough as her body ; she was secretary and treasurer of every- 
thing, and carried the most intricate accounts in her head 
without the least confusion. She was tall and sallow, had a 
heavy energetic tread, and always wore a black bonnet and a 
brdche shawl. The young people in the parish, who did not 
like her at all, were in the habit of calling her “the Bishop.” 
When the little sarcasm reached her ears (which were so keen 
nothing ever escaped them long), it seemed to gratify her, if 
one could presume to say anything ever gratified her. For 
years she had done a full half of all the lay work that was done 
in the parish. Dr. Upham had great confidence in her judg- 
ment and ability, and a certain sort of respect for her unflinch- 
ing independence; and a good deal of the regret that he felt at 
the dissolution of his cabinet came from the thought that she 
must go out with him. 

For that she must go out no one could for a moment doubt. 
Mrs. Sherman had early taken a violent d’slike to her, and she 


6T. PHILIP’S m NEW HANDS. 


93 


Lad early set her face sternly against Mrs. Sherman’s inter- 
ference. The two were incongruous, to say it in the softest 
way. When they came in contact there was an explosion, an 
explosion that shook the parish to its foundation, and all the 
peaceable-minded turned their attention to keeping them apart 
as much as might be. Mrs. Sherman, of course, triumphed ; 
she had all the young people on her side, and all the people 
that were ambitious of being invited to the Hill, and she had 
the new minister’s approval also, and the conservative voice 
was drowned. 

It may seem a little weak on the part of the new minister 
that he let Mrs. Sherman rule him so completely ; but there' 
are a good many things to be considered. In the first place, 
he had no idea that she was ruling him ; he thought he was 
having everything entirely as he wanted it himself. In the 
second place, he sympathized in a thousand ways with Mrs. 
Sherman, and he found himself terribly chilled and discon- 
certed by the old cabinet, with Mrs. Van Riper at their head. 
He was quite unused to the society of ladies, and so was per- 
fectly intoxicated with his first draught of it at the Hill. Mrs. 
Sherman was a miracle of goodness, generosity, and enthusiasm. 
Christine, Madeline, the young girls that he met there — ah, 
there were no words for them ; they all wore yet, indeed, the 
glory and the freshness of a dream. He felt as if he were in 
fairy land, and Mrs. Sherman his good genius. There never 
was a young deacon, surely, with such magical surroundings. 

There was no wish that was not gratified, no fancy that was 
not carried out for him. Money, that comes so hard at the 
bidding of most young clergymen, flowed into his hands at the 
mere opening of his lips. 

Mrs. Sherman always expected to pay high for the indul- 
gence of her taste, and this ecclesiastical mania was certainly an 
expensive one ; but she did not mind, and the Judge, her hus- 
band, was glad of anything that kept her quietly at home. It 


94 


ST. PHILIP’S IN NEW HANDS. 


was as easy fcr him to be paying for school-room decorations^ 
strawberry festivals, fonts, altar cloths, and organs, as for coiiph, 
saddle-horses, works of art, or boxes at the opera ; and certainly 
it had this advantage, that it allowed him a little rest, and pro- 
mised to give him at least six months in one place, a luxury to 
which he had long been unaccustomed. 

Perhaps it was a weak thing for Mr. Brockhulst to be so 
much under the influence of such a woman ; but how was he 
to know, pray, that she was such a woman ? How is pure- 
minded, cloistered twenty -three to judge correctly of worldly- 
wise, strong-willed, scheming forty-five ? It would have been 
better for the parish if he had understood and withstood ; but 
the age of miracles is past, they say, and Mr. Brockhulst only 
did what every man, lay or clerical, of his years, would have 
done — namely, walked straight into the trap, and thought him- 
self in paradise till he began to see he could not get out. Dr. 
IJpham should have warned him, perhaps. But then Dr. 
TJpham was a little blinded by Mrs. Sherman’s blandishments 
himself, and only saw half her faults, and regretted, most of 
all, her want of judgment and discretion. Of these, he did try 
delicately to hint to his young successor; but he, alas! had 
heard so much of the dear old Hector’s inefficiency and want of 
zeal, that his mind was not quite in a state to be benefited by 
his moderate counsels; and soon the Doctor began to think it 
was no longer his part to make suggestions ; that no young man 
could be expected patiently to receive the counsels of one not 
legally placed over him; and so, by degrees, he withdrew him- 
self more and more from parish affairs, and only used his influ- 
ence to soothe and keep peace among those who had not 
benefited by the change in the administration ; and as time 
went on, the necessity for this exertion did not decrease. 

Mr. Brockhulst’s salary was small ; the Rector’s having lived 
on his own property had given the parish a much better look 
than it would otherwise have had. So that it had beet con* 


ST. nilLIP’S IN NEW HANDS. 


95 


eluded by the vestry that, for the first year or two, till the 
parish was built up a little, it would be expedient for any young 
man assuming the charge of it, to assume also a class of boys 
for a few hours in the day, to eke out the salary by the compen- 
sation he would receive. There was no good boys’ school in 

, and most of the vestrymen had boys, so that it is possible 

they were not altogether disinterested in the matter. Mr. 
Brockhulst willingly assumed the duty ; he would have will- 
ingly assumed the care of six schools, and as many hospitals 
and almshouses, if it had been proposed to him, and would 
have died in consequence with pleasure. He did not value his 
life at all in comparison with his duty, and had no idea but to 
spend and be spent in the service of his Lord. He rose at day 
break, and went to bed long after midnight; he taught the class 
of boys from nine to one ; he looked after the parish-school and 
the Sunday-school, and visited the poor and sick most faithfully ; 
he had two services every day, and preached twice on Sunday, 
and yet he felt that he was by no means coming up to his ideal. 

With these views, it was no wonder that the Doctor’s mode- 
rate counsels fell coldly on his ear, and that as tirq^ passed on, 
he came less and less frequently to him for direction and advice. 
It was very natural, the Doctor said to himself, trying to reason 
away the pain he felt ; it was very natural ; at his age he would 
no doubt have done the same ; newly wedded people should be 
left to themselves, and so should newly wedded flock and pastor. 
What was youth without self-confidence ? — as unnatural as. age 
without caution and timidity. 

Mr. Brockhulst was a very good teacher, the paternal vestry- 
men soon found ; the boys were pushed forward very rapidly, 
and were quite enraptured with their studies'. All but Julian, 
who was for ever in diflSculties, and about whom the young 
clergyman was very much perplexed. It was a delicate thing 
to send the Rector’s grandson home every week with a bad 
report, and to have to keep him in four days out of five ; but 


96 


ST. PHILIP’S IN NEW HANDS. 


still it was something thaj» must be done, and the Rector had 
given him to understand he wished no difference made in any way. 

Upon this he had acted strictly at first, but by-and>by it 
came to lean a little to the other side of justice, and he did 
make a difference in his treatment of Julian; but it was not a 
difference in favor of Julian or in deference to his grand- 
father’s high station in the church. Julian was the worst 
child in the world, by great odds, but that was no reason why 
his occasional lucid intervals should be overclouded with injus- 
tice and something that had a little the look of persecution. 
He was unbearably exasperating about little things, but all 
his crimes were not capital, and it was not calculated to 
improve him to have them treated as if they were ; it rather 
mixed things up in his mind. The good and pure-minded 
young parson was as much bewildered and horror-stricken 
as was Christine at the boy’s depravity ; but he did not feel 
himself at liberty, for example’s sake, to treat it as tenderly 
as she did, and so he got into the w’ay of treating it with 
greater severity than the occasion required, and making an ex- 
ample of hiin; and being made an example of, is about as 
unprofitable a course as any child can be subjected to. 

But soon a partner came to share the honors of iniquity 
with Julian : Harry Gilmore was taken from the district school, 
where he was not doing anything but tearing his trowsers and 
scratching names on his desk, to become a member of Mr. 
Brockhulst’s class of boys, and to be educated like a gentleman. 
The miller shook his head ; he had been shaking it steadily 
ever since the class had been formed, and the idea had entered 
his wife’s brain ; he had been firmer about it than about any 
thing else he had ever attempted to oppose her in ; but in the 
nature of things heads cannot shake for ever, and sieges must be 
raised some time. At the end of a month the miller gave in, 
but with a gloomy and unsatisfied demeanor. 

“ Phoebe, it’s the first wrong step,” he said ; but he said no 


ST. PHILIP’S IN NEW HANDS. 


97 


more, and never reproached her with it afterwards. He made 
no demur about the money, although the mill had not done 
very well that year, and it would have been better to have re- 
trenched than expanded at just that point. 

Dr. Upham, when he had heard of the arrangement, put on 
his hat and walked down to the miller’s house to see if it were 
too late to remonstrate against it. But it was ; it would have 
been too late a month ago ; and all Mrs. Gilmore’s pride flamed 
up to resent the interference, if anything so delicate aud pastoral 
could be called an interference. 

And Harry became a member of Mr. Brockhulst’s class of 
boys, and partner in especial of Julian Upham and the enemy 
of peace. 


98 FIVE MINUTES TOO LONG AT THE GARDEN GATE. 


CHAPTER XY. 

FITE MINUTES TOO LONG AT THE GARDEN GATE. 

“ Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 

Old Time is still a-flying : 

And this same flower that smiles to-day, 

Tomorrow will be dying.” 

Hebrice. 

‘‘What shall you wear, do you think?” asked Madeline, 
sauntering through the Parsonage garden late in the afternoon 
with her now dear friend Christine. 

“ Oh, I have not thought,” said Christine, stooping to pick 
some heliotrope that grew beside the path. “At the fair, you 
mean ?” 

“Why, yes, of course I mean that; what else should I mean, 
when I haven’t been talking of anything else for the last hour? 
Though, in truth, I believe you haven’t been hearing a word 
Pve said.” 

“ Oh, yes, I have,” said Christine, faintly — though in truth she 
had been very absent, and her face had a slight shade on it. 

“ I never saw a girl who thought so little of such things,” 
went on Madeline, with some warmth. “I sometimes conclude 
we haven’t anything in common. What is it makes you dif- 
ferent? Do you think it’s wrong to care about your clothes ?” 

“Why no, I do care about them. I always notice what 
)ther people wear, and want to look as well myself ; you know 
that, I’m sure,” she said, making an effort to be interested. 
“Now tell me what dress you mean to have for the fair — you 
wear your bonnet, don’t you ?” 

“ Pourquoi done ? To rumple my hair for the evening ? No, 


FIVE MINUTES TOO LONG AT THE GARDEN GATE. 99 

indeed — Mrs. Sherman is going to let her maid dress my hair, 
and I shall wear my claret-colored organdie and the garnet set 
that Raymond sent last month. I tell you in confidence, I 
mean to make an end of little Brockhulst ; I mean to put him 
out of his misery ; he will die when he sees me in those garnets.” 

“ You ought to be ashamed,” said Christine, with a little 
langh, tying the heliotrope together. 

“ Oh, ought I? Well, I’m not; seriously, Christine, don’t you 
think that garnets are becoming, to people of my tint, you 
know ? Then I’ve an idea that I shall take Susie’s thread lace 
shawl (where’s the use of a married sister if you can’t use her 
things ?), and that lovely parasol she had when she was married ; 
she hasn’t had a chance to use it half-a-dozen times. It’s well 
to have the parasol at hand, though we shan’t need it in the 
tent ; but I don’t mean to stay in the tent all the time, I can 
assure you. I mean to walk with Colonel Steele and all the 
others through the grounds, and make Brockhulst go quite 
insane with jealousy. Poor fellow ! Christine, ought I to be 
ashamed ?” 

^ I shall not tell you ; you like to be scolded about him, and 
it only seems to make you worse.” 

“ Oh, you clever creature,” cried Maddy, with a coquettish 
laugh ; “ I absolutely am afraid of you, you see through people 
so. It’s a pity we are to have the same table at the fair ; 
it will make me uneasy all the time to think you have your 
eyes upon me. But, honestly, don’t you think my dress will 
be enchanting ? I have not settled on the color of ray gloves ; 
that’s the worst feature of claret for a dress, it is so hard to 
find a pretty shade of kid to go with it. Pearl would have 
been my choice, pearl worked with claret, but I doubt if I cao 
find it ; ah, Christine, if I could have ray gloves from Pari 
always ! That’s ray dream, you know.” 

“Well, it’s evident you won’t realize it if you marry Mr 
Brockhulst.” 


100 FIVE MINUTES TOO LONG AT THE GARDEN GATE. 


“Marry Mr. Brockhulst ! Ob, you are too innocent to live. 
Fancy me the parson’s wife, presiding at the Dorcas in pearl- 
colored kid gloves and garnets. There ! there’s the six o’clock 
bell for prayers. Run in and get your bonnet, and we’ll go 
through the garden way. I’ll wait for you here at the gate.” 

And while Christine went in for her bonnet, Madeline waited 
for her at the gate that separated the churchyard from the 
Parsonage garden. The honeysuckle that was trained above it 
was now in full bloom, and the gate was low and rather of the 
order that we see in pictures ; so that, as the young minister 
came slowly and thoughtfully through the churchyard towards 
the vestry-room door, he caught sight of something that 
“struck a bliss on all the day,” that made him forget the 
schoolboys and the forfeit lessons and the unwritten ser- 
mon on his study-table. Madeline met his eye half timidly, 
half brightly. She was so beautiful, she would have turned 
any man’s head ; and, despite her saucy raillery, she had a little 
sentiment about the young divine which gave her a softness 
that she lacked with others. 

He came towards her quickly and took her hand, the hand 
that had rested on the gate ; the other was occupied with hold- 
ing her fringed parasol between her and just one stray gleam of 
sunshine that was finding its- way down through the honey- 
suckle. 

“ You are coming in to prayers ?” he said, not knowing ex- 
actly what he said though, as he touched her ungloved hand. 

“ In a moment,” she said, caring very little what he talked 
about, as long as he stayed there at the gate till Christine 
came. 

In fact they were just where words are only useful to con- 
ceal thoughts, not to expound them. 

“You were not at prayers this morning.” 

“ Oh, no. It rained, you know, and mamma would not let mo 
come. Mamma is such a tyrant.” 


S'lVE MIX^TES TOO LONG AT THE GAEDEN GATE. 101 

The bell began to toll ; in a moment more he would have to 
go, and Madeline resolved he should not, till Christine came 
back; she was very jealous of her power to please him; besides, 
the minutes she passed with him were sweeter than ordinary 
minutes, there was not any doubt, so she profited by a happy 
accident and exclaimed : 

“ Oh 1 Mr. Brockhulst ! look at my parasol — how shall I get 
it out For she had been rather trifling with her parasol 
since Mr. Brockhulst came up, and the interests of the fringe 
had suSfered. There was a sweetbrier growing in the hedge 
and mixing itself up with the honeysuckle by the latch, and in 
this the fringe had caught. Mr. Brockhulst leaned over it ; so 
did Madeline. Mr. Brockhulst’s hands shook a little ; Made- 
line’s finger got pricked with a brier and bled a drop of crim- 
son blood, at sight of which Mr. Brockhulst forgot the parasol 
and the fringe, and wrapped the delicate hand in his own deli- 
cate cambric handkerchief, and bent down agitatedly over it, 
and then the bell stopped. 

Madeline heard it, but he did not ; and with a wicked feeling 
of triumph she went on talking foolishly and prettily about her 
finofer, and admitting that it hurt her, when it dk] not in 
the least, and telling him not to mind, it would be better in a 
minute. 

“There, there, my parasol — oh, look after that!” she said, a 
little frightened, as Christine came running down the path, and 
as she caught sight of Mrs. Van Riper standing immovable on 
the church steps and watching them. 

“ Why,” said Christine, “ why do you wait for me, Maddy ? 
Julian kept me. It is five minutes past the hour; the bell 
has stopped — so long — oh, Mr. Brockhulst 1 I did not see you.” 

Mr. Brockhulst at her words had started up — the color left 
his face ; he looked like a person who had received some sud- 
den intelligence of evil. With a hurried bow he left them 
and went directly to the vestry-room door. 


102 FIVE MINUTES TOO LONG AT TUE GAEDEN GATE. 

Madeline, though she did not understand the full extent of 
the self-reproach he felt, understood enough to feel uncom 
fortable, and to wish she had not kept him. But after all, 
what was it ? Five minutes, that was all, and not a dozen 
people waiting for him in the church. No one would have 
ever known if that horrid woman had not seen them at the 
gate. 

Yes, it was only five minutes ; but the young minister felt, as 
he walked into the chancel with a hurried step, that months of 
penance could not make up for it; in his eyes it seemed the 
blackest sin he ever had been guilty of ; a neglect of duty, a 
carelessness in God’s service, a desecration of holy hours, an 
indulgence in unholy thoughts perfectly monstrous and appall- 
ing. His face w^as bloodless ; his voice shook as he turned to 
address his people. That little vanity of Madeline’s cost him 
bitter misery of spirit. 

“Oh, Christine ! ” she whispered, clutching Christine’s arm 
as they hurried into church, “ what do you think the Bishop 
will do about it? How long do you suppose she had been 
glaring at us from the steps ? I vow I am terrified to death. I 
shouldn’t wonder if she got them to depose him.” 

The Bishop read her responses in a terribly severe tone that 
evening, and her eyes had a very stony, unprepossessing look,' 
as she fixed them on the minister during the reading of the 
lessons. He faltered as he met them more than once, and all 
the congregation could not fail to see that for some cause he 
was in a state of agitation. Madeline really was uncomfortable ; 
she lingered at the church door with Christine for some minutes 
after service, hoping for a word with him in passing out — a word 
that would make him feel the insignificance of the Bishop’s 
wrath compared with the potency of her smiles; but she was 
disappointed. 

He passed them quickly with the stifFest bow ; and for ten 
days she was denied the chance of exchanging a look, much less 


FIVE MINUTES TOO LONG AT THE GARDEN GATE. 103 


a word with him. He never came near their cottage, and at the 
Hill avoided her-with a most practical perseverance. At church 
his eye never fell by any chance upon her, and in the street ho 
did not see her. Madeline came to the Parsonage every day and 
talked with Christine about it, laughing at him, bemoaning the 
withdrawal of his favor, and wondering what it meant. 

In truth she was rather restless and petulant at home just 
then, and might as well be talking nonsense with Christine 
about her lovers as trying to do anything sensible for her mother, 
for she did not, or could not, persevere in any work above an 
hour, and invariably spoiled everything she undertook. 

“In truth, Madeline,’- said her mother sternly, “I do not 
think this getting up for prayers at six o’clock agrees with 
you.” 

“ It isn’t that,” said Madeline, “ at all ; it’s this horrid August 
weather ; it makes me good for nothing.” 

It was the middle of August, and the weather certainly was 
very warm. 


THE EAIK. 


lO^i 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE FAIR. 

“ Her only labour is to kill the time ; 

And labour dire it is, and weary wo.” 

Tkomsok. 

The fair Lad for its remote object, the purchase of an oigan; 
for its immediate intention, the gratification of Mrs. Sherman’s 
energy, and the amusement of the young ladies of the congre- 
gation. It was not to be a commonplace, unambitious affair, 
held in a public hall or vacant house or Sunday-school, presided 
over by spinsters and superintendents ; but was to be more on 
the order of a fke champHre^ a full-dress entertainment, only 
enduring the length of one summer afternoon, and to be termi- 
nated by a little party for the young ladies interested, at the 
Hill in the evening. 

The tent was erected in a beautiful though distant part of the 
Sherman grounds ; the Sherman servants were in attendance ; the 
Sherman carriage had been driving about the town all day for 
the convenience of everybody concerned in it; the Sherman 
cuisine furnished the greater part of the refreshments, and 
Sherman money paid for most of the articles made and sold ; 
it was pretty clear, upon reflection, that the Sherman pocket 
would have suffered less if the organ to be purchased had been 
a Sherman present out and out — only Mrs. Sherman would 
have missed the occupation. 

It is a pretty well established fact that the young men of this 
generation are averse to fairs, that they turn their backs upon 
them to a man, that they will resort to dishonorable stratagems 


THE FAIR. 


105 


to avoid attending them. But it so happened that Mrs. Sher- 
man had a number of young men at call who did not dare to 
refuse her invitation, who were indebted to her for so much 
hospitality that they could not with any decency be engaged 
in any other way when the day for her hiir came round. So it 
happened that the three o’clock train brought up half-a-dozen 
“men in uniform,” and three or four black coats; and that at 
four o’clock, when dined, refreshed, and dressed, they walked 
down from the house to the picturesque and decorated tent, 
there was tumultuous fluttering in the hearts of the young ladies 
in it. 

There were a good many pretty faces in ; the tent 

just then, indeed, was a perfect rosebud garden of girls, but of 
them all the minister’s little daughter was again the prettiest. 
Madeline, indeed, had realized her dream in the matter of her 
toilette ; she was faultlessly dressed, and strikingly beautiful in 
face and figure. But Christine’s was something more pic- 
turesque than good style, something more touching than mere 
beauty. She wore a dress and mantilla of white barege, a very 
fresh and light and pure material, and a round hat of the 
whitest straw, bound with light-green velvet, and with a long 
green feather drooping over her waving auburn hair, smoothed 
and braided low on her neck behind. She wore the malachite 
ornaments, heavy earrings, and bracelets that one might fancy 
of the sort Isaac sent to Rebecca by the hands of his faithful 
steward. Iler mantilla was fastened low on her shoulders by 
pins to match, and her shoulders were exquisite through the 
transparent texture of her dress. The faint pink was deepening 
gradually on her cheeks, but it never grew too deep for the 
delicate character of her beauty. 

Mrs. Sherman had done well to place these young girls 
together; a sight of tCe two side by side was quite worth the 
admittance-fee and all the subsequent extortions. The table of 
which they had charge was the most prominent and best 

5 * 


THE FAIR. 


1 06 

situated in the tent. Christine had flowers and bon-bons to 
dispose of, and Madeline told fortunes and kept a sort of post- 
oflSce. Flowers and bon-bons consequently were in high de- 
mand, and the post-office was besieged by gentlemen. Madeline’s 
eyes were gleaming with triumph ; she had taken in more 
money than any one else in the tent, and the other young 
ladies were throwing envious glances at her from behind their 
unbesieged tables. 

At about five o’clock Dr. Catherwood came in ; Christine 
saw him enter, and watched him as well as she could from the 
demands upon her attention, as he made his way up towards 
them. Yery slowly, however. He went to every other stall 
first, and then Mrs. Sherman seized upon him, and for half an 
hour at least she walked about leaning on his arm and making 
him buy everything that seemed to hang fire at all. She could 
not have found an easier victim, nor one who submitted with a 
better grace. She released him at last, however, and then he 
made his way up to the table where the flowers and bon-bons 
were dispensed. 

At the moment that he reached it. Colonel Steele, at Christine’s 
right hand, was helping her to make change for a young officer 
who had been buying bon-bons and bouquets the whole after- 
noon ; and a little below them, before the table, Mr. Leslie was 
trying to make up his mind between two boxes of confectionery 
and particularly anxious for Miss TJpham’s judgment and advice. 

“ Oh, how late you are ! I thought you were not coming,” 
she said, as Dr. Catherwood came up beside her. Her face had 
a radiance of welcome on it, too, and Colonel Steele looked on 
perplexed. She seemed so innocently relieved and happy at the 
sight of him, one would have said she was w^elcoming a brother 
or a father. Yet Dr. Catherwood was not exactly the sort of 
man for a pretty girl to welcome as a father or a brother. Tlio 
doctor looked handsome that day, remarkably handsome, even 
among the younger and more dashing men about him ; and ho 


THE FAIR. 


101 


bad that even, thoughtful manner, that Colonel Steele was well 
aware all women most admire. Christine evidently was much 
better pleased to have him by her, quiet as he was, than any of 
the others, devoted as they had been, and yet her manner was 
anything but that of a coquette, though her words and tone 
had been those of one. 

Madeline would have said exactly what she did : “ Oh, how 
late you are; I thought you were not coming!” — but she would 
have said it with a flash of her eyes, and in a tone so low no 
one else could possibly li a ve heard. Christine said it in a low 
tone, too, because her voice was naturally low, but so that 
Colonel Steele heard it distinctly, and with a simplicity of expres- 
sion that all the world could have seen if they had wanted to. 

“There is a bouquet I have been saving for you all the 
afternoon,” she said, giving him one. “ Everybody has been 
wanting it, though it is so little.” 

“Oh, Miss Upham! when I made you such an unheard-of 
offer for it 1 That is what I call simony ; you have defrauded 
the Church, let me tell you ; Catherwood will not give you half 
as much,” said Colonel Steele. 

“ Oh, you will. Dr. Catherwood, won’t you ? J ust as much 
as ever I ask you ?” 

“Just as much as ever you ask me, Miss Christine,” he said, 
taking out his purse with a smile. 

“ Well, I don’t want you to pay me now,” she said laughing. 
“ You must help me count up all my gains to-night, and if I 
come out very much below Madeline, you shall pay a whole 
fortune for the flowers. Madeline will outdo me, though, I am 
very much afraid.” 

“ Miss Clybourne is more enterprising.” 

“ Yes, I know she is. There, Dr. Catherwood, see, she is 
beckoning to you. That’s just the way she does She has a 
letter for you, I suppose. Do not stay though ; it isn’t fair in 
her.” ' 


108 


THE FAIR. 


“No, I assure you I will not stay,” he said, moving away 
slowdy towards the other end of the table. 

Colonel Steele looked after him with some curiosity. Here was 
a man in demand among young ladies, evidently, and yet what 
had he done to make them like him? He did not pay them 
compliments ; he did not have the appearance of any special 
devotion to them ; he only looked handsome and thoughtful, 
and as if he understood them through and through. 

“ It takes very little to please the pretty creatures,” thought 
the Colonel, with a shrug; yet he thought gloomily, that little 
was a natural gift, and all men could not gain it, however 
strongly they might ambition it. He called Dr. Catherwood his 
old friend, and yet in truth they knew each other very slightly. 
They had travelled together at different times, had done each 
other various favors in various little ways, but had never got 
beyond an easy cordial acquaintance. Perhaps the reserve 
was more on Dr. Catherwood’s part than on his, but he had 
never had any object in penetrating it, and had been content 
to remain just where he was till now. 

The fact was. Colonel Steele was a good deal taken with the 
Minister’s daughter, and everything and every one of interest to 
her now became of interest to him ; and he resolved to know 
how much she liked Dr. Catherwood, and in what way she 
liked him. To which end he said, sitting down beside her 
behind the table during a few moments of quiet : 

“ So you are going to take Dr. Catherwood as your account- 
ant, and not me ? I own I had hoped you placed confidence 
enough in me to have allowed me the pleasure of settling your 
accounts for you, and bringiug you out superior to Miss Cly- 
bourne. But I see my friend the Doctor has inspired you 
with more faith. What can the reason be, I wonder ?” 

“ Oh, but I have known Dr. Catherwood so much longer, 
you see,” said Christine, lightly, snapping backward and for- 
ward the key in the little box which contained the money. 


THE FAIR. 


loa 

“So much longer?” repeated Colonel Steele ; “how much 
longer, pray ?” 

“Oh, I have known Dr. Catherwood since — since last Deceim 
her — yes — the twelfth of last December.” 

“And me since June — last June — but you don’t remember 
the date, of course.” 

“ Oh, yes, I do. It was the eighteenth, at Mrs. Sherman’s 
party — I remember the date perfectly — I have it written on 
the bouquet I carried that night. It was my first party and 
my first bouquet, and I could not throw it away.” 

Colonel Steele happened to know who had given her the 
bouquet, and he did not feel particularly encouraged at the 
keenness of her recollection. 

“And yet Dr. Catherwood was away all last winter. He has 
told me he stayed till May at his plantation. Now, I don’t see 
that he has much the' advantage of me, in point of time at least. 
You really have not seen so much more of him after all. What 
can you possibly know of his character, now. Miss Upham ? I 
am in earnest, I think he is almost a stranger to you.” 

“Dr. Catherwood began by doing me the greatest kindness 
any one could possibly have done me,” said Christine, in an 
earnest voice — “and he is papa’s friend, and Julian’s, and I 
should be most ungrateful if I did not consider him ray best 
friend, too.” 

Colonel Steele bit his lip. It is so hard to know how to get 
along with a girl in society who will persist in speaking sin- 
cerity and truth. Badinage and nonsense are in so much bet- 
ter taste. But somehow it suited this young person ; it was 
quite becoming to her, though it made her awkward to deal 
with sometimes ; one did not expect her to be coquettish or to 
say extravagant and unreal things, as one expects others of her 
age to do ; though her laughter was as merry and her sense of 
humor quite as keen as that of any other person. It was this 
very difference from others that had fascinated the worldly 


no 


THE EAIE. 


wise Colonel, though he felt so much like complaining of it 
now. 

People are very apt to be unjust when they are in love, and 
the worldly-wise Colonel was a good deal in love ; enough so to 
walk away with a very jealous coldness when Dr. Catherwood 
came back from his little flirtation with Miss Clybourne. 

“Well,” said Christine, with a very pretty look of interest in 
her face as he sat down beside her, “ did she tell your fortune 
for you ?” 

“ Oh, yes, and gave me three or four letters, too. In fact, she 
made a great deal of money out of me. I shall have to buy 
up all that is left upon your table to make it even ; all your 
bon-bons are not gone ?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said .Christine, with an ewnwyelook; 
‘ I am so tired of money — I have talked of it all the afternoon. 
I’m very glad I’m not a man, to have to talk of it all day.” 

“ I don’t believe you have much financial ability,” said her 
companion, taking the box of money from her ; “ and I see you 
are beginning to look pale. I am going to take you out of this 
noisy tent for sanitary reasons, and install little Miss Richfield 
here instead, at least for half an hour; Mrs. Sherman cannot 
object to that.” 

“I am afraid she will,” said Christine, with a longing look 
out into the grounds. “The whole affair ends a little before 
eight, and it is almost seven now ; it will not do for me to go.” 

“ It will not do for you to stay,” said Dr. Catherwood, getting 
up. “ What’s the younger Miss Richfield’s name — Caroline ?” 

“ Oh, Dr. Catherwood — stay — I am afraid she will not like 
it — she may be tired, too.” 

“ Nothing will give her greater pleasure, I am positive,” said 
ho, sedately, going towards the Richfield table. 

Christine looked after him rather nervously ; he went up to 
the little Miss Richfield and said something that made her 
blush and look very bright, go towards her elder sister, hold 


THE EAIR. 


Ill 


an explanatory whisper with her, and then follow Dr. Gather 
wood towards the bon-bon table. 

The fact was, little Miss Caroline had been standing behind 
her pincushions, socks, sacks, and baby-bait all the afternoon, 
and had not had a nibble, and she w'as delighted to leave them 
in charge of her older sister, and go off towards a more distin- 
guished quarter of the tent, where were officers and city gentle- 
men and a general look of high life and conviviality. 

The Richfields were pillars of the Church, but extremely 
plain and humdrum in their manner of life, and the younger 
members of the family were perfectly dazzled by the glories of 
the Hill. Dr. Catherwood installed Miss Caroline in Chris- 
tine’s place, having laid hands, in passing, on an unemployed 
young officer, and done him the favor to introduce him to Miss 
Caroline, and commit the care of the money-box to him ; all of 
which made Miss Caroline feel that the world was a most intoxi- 
cating place, and that the crisis of her life had come. 

“ How well you managed it,” said Christine, as she followed 
Dr. Catherwood through the crowd to the entrance of the tent; 
“ I think you always do as you w^ant to do with people, though 
vou are so very quiet.” , 

“ And yet you never are willing to trust to me to accomplish 
anything; do you know that, my dear Miss TJpham?” 

“ Miss Upham ! Oh, does not that sound droll ! I could al- 
most fancy I had Colonel Steele’s arm instead of Dr. Cather- 
wood’s.” 

“ If the fancy pleases you, I could easily manage to make it 
a reality. You have only to say so, you know,” said Dr. Ca- 
therwood, pausing as they were turning into a diverging 
path. 

“Oh, je vous en prie,^' cried Christine, with a little shudder, 
clasping her left hand in her right one on his arm, and moving 
forward. 

“ Oh, then, I will do as well for the moment,” said Di; 


112 


THE FAIR. 


Catherwood, with a satisfied little smile, as they went on into 
the path. 

“ Yes, for the moment, and the hour, and the day, and the 
always,” said the childish beauty, forgetting to unclasp her 
hands, which looked exquisitely white upon his sleeve. “ Oh, 
Dr. Catherwood, how tired I do get of strangers. IIovv do you 
manage to be so pleasant to everybody ? Sometimes I think 
it does not make much diff’erence to you, reall}’’, who is talking 
to you. Do you know, if it were not you, I shcuid think it 
was something a little like hypocrisy ?” 

“ Let me explain,” said he, with a half-serious smile. “ What 
would become of me, do you think, if I went through the world 
with my soul in my eyes, as you go ? It is a questionable ex- 
periment for a woman ; but for a man, believe me, it would be 
an unwise and dangerous business. W^hy, think of all that 
meets a man ; the deceit, the folly, the enmity, and the flat- 
tery; his only protection is to see without seeming to see; to 
feel without evincing feeling. He need not be a hypocrite, 
Christine, because he keeps his wisor down. You know you 
would not think him wise if he went into the fight without it.” 

“ But it need not be a visor of smiles — smiles for everybody.” 

“ I pity the man who would go through the world with stern 
looks for everybody. His heart would not be in the right 
place, Christine, I think. Little children, women, sufferers, and 
even men who are trying to get the better of him — all are oD 
jects of benevolence to a man who has a Christian soul within 
him. I do not see the necessity for stern looks.” 

“Oh, that is not what I mean : benevolence is all very well ; 
but I don’t see why you need look just alike for everybody — ■ 
why you need look just the same when you talk to little Miss 
Richfield, who isn’t your friend, as when you talk to me, who am.” 

“ Now, I leave it to — to the acacias that are above us both, if 
I looked anything as I look now wdien I talked to the little 
Richfield.” 


THE FAIK. 


113 


They had been walking through a winding, well sept path 
that led through a grove of acacias at the extreme border of the 
Sherman grounds ; a little knoll rising at the right was 
crowned with a rustic summer-house ; just as they paused be- 
fore it, Christine turned, laughing, and looked up in his face. 

“ No,” she said, “ truth compels me to state, I do not think 
you did.” 

Her companion’s eyes were blue ; eyes that grew tender and 
full of light only rarely. Christine had never before seen them 
wear exactly that expression. 

At that moment there was a sudden rustle in the shrubbery 
beside them ; some one darted across the path and disappeared 
into the bushes opposite. It was Julian XJpham, with Harry 
Gilmore in hot chase. 

“ Oh, there will be some trouble !” exclaimed Christine, let- 
ting go her companion’s arm, and starting a step forward, 
“What shall I do !” 

“ I will go after them,” said Dr. Catherwood, with a contrac- 
tion of the brow, “ and bring him back. Don’t be anxious at 
all. I will send Harry home, and bring Julian here with me, 
if you wish it.” 

“ I wish you’d let me go with you,” she said, earnestly ; “ I 
don’t want to go back to the tent yet, and they haven’t proba- 
bly gone beyond the mill.” 

“Very well,” he said, “if you are not afraid of injuring your 
dress, come with me and he led the way across the shrub* 
bery into the fields that led directly to the mill. 


114 


THE END OF HARET’s HOLIDAY. 


CHAPTER XVIL 

THE END OF HARRy’s HOLIDAY. 

“ It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; 

The holy time is quiet as a nun 
Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
Is sinking down in its tranquillity.” 

WORDSWCBTH. 

The evening was lovely, and perhaps the transition from the 
gay and noisy scene they had just left made the quiet more 
beautiful and noticeable than ordinary to Christine and her 
companion. The sun had been gone about fifteen minutes from 
the sky, which it had left all of a clear, golden color in the 
west, and all a pale-blue in the south, growing faintly pink in 
the distant east. There was not a breath of wind ; the mill- 
wheel was silent, and the mill-stream along which they were 
walking was fair and tranquil “as the river of a dream.” 

They had come to look for Julian, to be sure, but they were 
not walking very fast. Occasionally Dr. Catherwood stopped 
and listened for the boys’ voices, but he could hear nothing ; 
and occasionally Christine called Julian’s name, but elicited no 
response. 

“ They may have gone down to the miller’s house,” he said, • 
looking that way. “ You had better wait here by the dam 
while I go and see.” 

The miller s house lay down in a sort of meadow, below the 
level of the mill-pond, and Christine sat down upon the bridge, 
while her companion went off in the direction of it. He 
walked a good deal quicker after he left her, but it was some 
minutes before he reached the gate ; and when he was out of 


THE ElfD OF HARRY’S HOLIDAY. 


115 


Sight she turned and looked at the old mill, with its great wheel 
and open doors, and thought of the night when she had looked 
at them in a trance of terror, calling Julian’s name across the 
ice. How long ago that night seemed ! — what changes and 
trials in her care of Julian ! Sometimes she reproached her- 
self for feeling the burden so much less than formerly, though 
it was still the occupation and duty of her life ; she did not 
understand how it had come to pass that so much of it had 
gone on Dr. Catherwood ; that he in her place was bearing now 
so much the heavier part of the responsibility. She could not 
have had it otherwise if she had chosen ; it was Dr. Cather- 
wood’s way to do as he thought fit. But how could she have 
lived without him — how have sustained this weight upon her 
conscience, if he had not helped her to see things right, with 
his clear man’s sense, and made her willing to come to him in 
all the thousand little troubles out of which she could not find 
her way alone. 

With her father it would have been almost impossible to have 
done so ; he could not quite have understood her, and could not 
probably have made her understand him ; she would have 
known she was distressing him by her scruples and alarms, and 
would soon have learned to keep them to herself. But with 
Doctor Catherwood it was so different ; she had hardly to tell 
him what she was feeling ; he understood it all before she had 
found the words for it ; if it were only a conscientious scruple, 
an alarm lest she had neglected some duty towards the boy, he 
had no contempt for it, no impatience with the weakness, but 
he made her see it was a weakness, and gave her, while he 
soothed her, steadiness and strength to combat such feelings in 
the future. If it were some trouble that was tangible, some one 
of the thousand mischiefs and misfortunes into which the boy 
was continually dragging himself and her, he only heard it 
quietly, without showing a shade of annoyance or surprise, and 
said : 


116 


THE EXD OF HARRY’S HOLIDAY'. 


“ Leave it to me, there is no need of saying anything to Dr. 
(Jpham ; I will see to it, and talk to Julian ” 

The tie between them in that way had become a very close 
one; confidences about Julian naturally led to confidences in 
which he was but little mingled ; and Dr. Catherwood had read 
every page of the girl’s pure heart, and measured the daily 
growth of her young mind, before he had been her constant 
companion for a month. He never allowed her to feel it was 
unnatural and strange for them to be upon the terms they were ; 
he never made the relations between them so apparent to the 
world, that the world would catechize her in regard to them. 
He dreaded jealously the first words that should wake a mis- 
giving in her mind, and for that reason he felt Mrs. Sherman to 
be his greatest foe. 

The companionship of this young girl, just now, was worth 
more to him than the friendship, and honor, and adulation of 
all the world ; the mind requires such diflferent medicine at 
diflferent times ; and as to Christine, though but a moment ago 
she had talked earnestly to Colonel Steele about her gratitude 
to Dr. Catherwood, she rarely felt the burden of it ; rarely 
realized that he was giving up time, and thought, and comfort 
for her constantly; and never reflected that he was in truth 
standing to her in an attitude of protection and surveillance 
that only the tie of family can render wise and safe. 

He knew every page of her heart — every page, that is, but 
one — and that was one that she never turned back to herself; 
it was the initial page of, her life’s history, and was reflected in 
every succeeding one ; she knew it word for word, but she 
never dared to dwell upon it, never opened it and re-read and 
reflected on it. Her sister’s de^th-bed scene was still most 
vivid and most painful in her recollection ; the consequences of 
it she had not as yet thought very deeply of ; her vow she felt 
separated her from others of her age, and made her different 
from them; but she had not, from her very innocence and sim- 


THE END OF IIARRy’s HOLIDAY. 


117 


plicity, and from the satisfaction of her heart in its friendship 
and in her domestic ties, felt its strength and cruelty. She had 
within a year outgrown the morbid sensitiveness of her child- 
hood — the spring of youth animated her spirits, and a healthier 
tone had taken possession of her mind. The frightful, sleepless 
nights, or equally frightful and exhausting dreams in which she 
had lived over and over again the hour that preceded Helena's 
death, were of very rare occurrence now ; natural vigor was 
returning to her nerves, and was throwing off these unhealthy 
visitations. How much of this change was owinoj to the infiu- 
ence of Dr. Catherwood’s determined and judicious treatment 
of her delicate physique, and equally delicately organized mind, 
it was impossible to judge ; certain it was, however, that from the 
time of his first coming among them, she had seemed an altered 
and more natural child, and grew each day healthier and happier. 

This evening, as she sat waiting on the bridge watching for 
the return of her companion, some thoughts of the difibrence 
he had made in her life came over her, and a truer estimate of 
their relations' suggested itself to her mind for the moment. 
But she thought still only as a child thinks, and the veil was 
upon her heart. 

She was sitting in a dreamy, listless attitude upon the bridge, 
listening idly to the soft rush of the water over the dam, when 
a sound of voices met her ear — angry voices smothered instantly, 
then breaking out again after a moment in involuntary vehe- 
mence. Christine knew them instantly — Julian’s shrill tone 
and Harry’s angry muttering. She sprang up and ran forward ? 
the mill door stood open ; and at the further extremity of the 
building another door stood open — a door that looked down 
over the water some thirty feet below. The sight of this door 
always gave Christine a shiver ; she had watched it in fascination 
as a child, when the miller and his man lowered barrels down 
from it to the boats below, and had felt certain, if she went 
near enough to it to look over she should throw herself down 


118 


THE END OF HAEKY’S HOLIDAY. 


into the blue and rippling surface underneath. The surface was 
not blue and rippling as she caught sight of it now' ; it was 
smooth and glassy, and gilded with the color of the sky — and. 
immediately before it, in bold relief against this open space in 
the dark building, were the two boys they had come to seek, in 
a close wrestle with each other, fierce angry faces, limbs grap- 
pling each other with eager vehemence of purpose, eyes and 
voices both emitting sudden and threatening flames of anger. 
They were not three feet from the open door ; and blinded with 
rage and intent only on one thing, it was not strange that at 
one moment they were at its very brink, at another had stag- 
gered several feet away from it. 

Christine’s blood ran cold ; she started forward, uttered a 
scream, and leaned against a post beside her for support. The 
scream did not reach or penetrate the ears of the passionate and 
reckless children. The time that passed seemed long to Chris- 
tine, but it was in fact not more than twenty seconds, during 
which the boys reeled forward a second time to the very brink 
of the door-sill, disputing desperately every inch of the floor, 
which was smooth, and worn, and slippery wdth the fine white 
powder that covered everything within the mill. Harry, with 
a sudden effort of his great strength, threw himself on his 
slight antagonist and pressed him down upon his knees ; it was 
the first sign who might be the conqueror ; a dreadful expression 
of rage lighted Julian’s face for an instant as he felt himself 
losing ground. He made a sudden movement as of giving way, 
which relaxed his adversary’s grasp, then a sudden spring and 
regained his feet, and with his one free hand aimed a quick 
blow between the other’s eyes. 

A howl of pain, a relaxing of his hold upon his foe, one mis- 
step, a clutch towards the door-post which he could not see, a 
reeling movement, a heavy plunge in the water below, and 
Harry Gilmore’s holiday was over, and the dark waves were 
settling themselves into calm above his senseless body. 


ME. BEOCKHULST FOKGETS TO TELL HIS BEADS. 119 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

MR. BROCKHDLST FORGETS TO TELL HIS BEADS. 

“ Pleasures night and day are hovering 
Round their prey of weary hours, 

Weakness and unrest discovering 
In the best of human powers.” 

Milnes. 

Christine did not appear again at the Hill that night, neither 
did Dr. Catherwood. Colonel Steele watched for them with jea- 
lous eyes and flirted very desperately with Madeline, to show the 
world he had no interest in the auburn-haired crirl from the 

O 

Parsonage, about whose absence every one was wondering. He 
did not say he had seen her go away with Dr. Catherwood, foi 
the reason that he wished to keep that little piece of intelli- 
gence in his own hands for his own use by-and-by, and no one 
else seemed to have noticed their departure. 

Mrs. Sherman was very much exercised and made quite a 
bruit about it, but fortunately she had too many strings to her 
bow that night to harp with her usual pertinacity upon Chris- 
tine. She w’as busy beyond all precedent. The Fair so far had 
been a complete success, and it only remained for her to render 
the evening at her house satisfactory and delightful, and the 
Bishop was deposed for ever. The Bishop, though in open hos- 
tility to the whole affair, had with great hardihood and malice 
come to the tent for a little while during the afternoon strictly en 
spectateur^ and had been obviously chagrined at the success and 
the brilliancy of the affair. Of course she had not appeared to 
give in at all, had criticized the work, sneered at the clap-trap 
character of the institution called the post-office, put down her 


120 ME. BEOCKHULST FOEGETS TO TELL HIS BEADS. 

ice-cream with an expression of face that could not be mistaken, 
shaken her head decidedly at the offer of plurn-cake, and smother- 
ed a derisive smile at the sight of the decorations. But still it 
was unanimously decided she had been chagrined and much sur- 
prised, and Mrs. Sherman felt completely satisfied so far. She 
had charged Madeline with the rather questionable duty of 
sending her through the post-office a spiteful little Jotter, but 
she got the better of Madeline by declining to take it out, saying 
she had no correspondent who wrote such an unsightly hand. 
After that Madeline felt herself at liberty to be very saucy to 
her, and to set all her admirers to the task of quizzing her ; but 
with all their combined cleverness they did not make much 
headway. One point, certainly, the Bishop made. Madeline, 
with all the glories of the day upon her, the envied of all the 
neglected young saleswomen, the admired of all the jaunty 
young gentlemen from town, had a restless, unsatisfied ambition 
in her heart. Mr. Brockhulst had not been near her, nor, as far 
as she knew, looked at her for one moment. She knew it was 
doubtful whether he would go to the Hill in the evening ; she 
had resolved he should speak to her before he went away, 
which, as it was seven o’clock, he might do any moment. She 
had determined he should be fascinated with her that night, and 
restore her to her former position with him, and had acted over 
and over again in mind the little scene of reconciliation, or rein- 
statement, or whatever it might be called. But here were the 
precious moments slipping away, and she was no nearer it than 
she had been at the beginning of the afternoon. She was 
growing so uneasy and restless, she scarcely could talk to her 
admirers as became an accomplished belle, and her eyes follow- 
ed the young clergyman rather imprudently about the tent. 
For Madeline, though very clever, and a coquette by nature, 
was an indiflferent actress when she found her feelings much 
enlisted. The Bishop, sitting down to rest herself near Made- 
line’s table, rose at last, and said as she passed her : 


MK. BROCKHULST FORGETS TO TELL HIS BEADS. 121 

“Well, MisQ Madeline, I think you’ll have to give up count- 
ing change if Mr. Brockhulst stays in sight much longer. Why 
don’t you send for him and done with it? I’m on my way out; 
what shall I tell him for you ?” 

That was the point the Bishop made ; the blood rushed to 
Madeline’s face, her eyes fell — she could not command her 
voice for several seconds. 

“ Tell him ?” she said, at last, rallying and looking up from the 
change she had been bending over in confusion. “ Tell him 
there is a letter for him in the oflSce.” 

“^'’ery well, I will. I ha.ve no doubt it is an interesting 
one.” 

So, while she strode across the room towards the young min- 
ister, Madeline sank down into a chair and drew a sheet of 
paper towards her hurriedly — what should she write ? This 
was a flagrant piece of coquetry, considering the terms he had 
placed her on. She should not have dreamed of doing it if it 
had not been for this wicked and impertinent enemy’s attack. 
She wished she had only kept her self-possession and not sent 
her on such a foolish embassy. She should be disgraced when 
he came up if she had not a letter ready, and her fingers shook 
so she could not have written a line, even if she ha^ thought of 
any line to wfite, and she could not keep her eyes from stray- 
ing over in the direction in which the Bishop went on her most 
unhappy errand. 

How would he take it? She saw him start a little, bow 
stiffly, and turn slowly to approach the table where .she sat. 
Her eyes dropped on the paper — oh, what should she write ! — 
he would be here even before she could fold up and direct a 
blank sheet of paper. He must be looking at her now. 

He might have been, but he was not. The young clergy- 
man’s face was quite a study as he came up and stood before 
the table at which Madeline was sitting, looking down in con- 
fusion at her paper. He was perfectly pale, and his eyes were 

6 


122 ME. BEOCKHULST FOEGETS TO TELL HIS BEADS 

turned away from her. He looked like a young monk, telling 
his beads with averted face, while Folly and her giddy troop 
passed by. Madeline, with crimson cheeks, agitated move- 
ments, and softened eyes, bent her beautiful head before him, 

A moment passed of painful silence, another — and then she 
lifted her eyes timidly, and met his turned towards her for the 
first time. Ah, fatal glance, that undid all the rigid work of 
the past three weeks of penance ! She was so beautiful ; and 
her eyes had such an imploring, deprecating, almost frightened 
look. She forgot the jaunty young gentlemen with their straw 
hats and lilac gloves ; she forgot she was a coquette, and a 
beauty, and all that; for the moment she only thought of the 
Parsonage gate over which the honeysuckle grew, and the pale 
face in the dim church afterwards. She was wholly swayed by 
the little bit of sentiment that she had allowed to creep into 
her heart latterly, and when she raised her eyes they were full 
of dangerous feeling. 

“ Oh, Mr. Brockhulst,” she said, speaking confusedly and 
quickly, “I am so sorry Mrs. Van Riper sent you, for there is 
no letter for you — it was only her idea. I hope you’re not dis- 
pleased.” 

There was a moment more of question and reply made with- 
out much reference to common-sense and intelligent interchange 
of thought, and then Mr. Brockhulst turned to go away a little 
paler than when he had come up. 

All the coquette in Madeline’s heart sprang out of ambush 
then ; he should not go in that manner, he should not escape 
her so. 

“You are coming to the Hill this evening, Mr. Brockhulst?” 
he said, with a half-veiled brightness in her eyes as she lifted 
them to his. “ It — is so long since you have been there — I 
mean — to stay for more than a few minutes. Mrs. Sherman 
will be disappointed.” 

Mr. Brockhulst forgot to count his beads that minute , he 


ME. BEOCKIIULST FOEGETS TO TELL HIS BEADS. 123 

looked into Folly’s beautiful eyes, and pledged himself to come 
that evening to the Hill, and then he went away to another 
stall in the fair, with a miserable consciousness that he had lost 
a terrible amount of ground. 


1 


124 


VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 


CHAPTER XIX 

VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 

“ Hers was the subtlest spell by far 

Of all that sets young hearts romancing ; 

She was the queen, the rose, the star. 

And when she danced — oh, heaven, her dancing !” 

Frako. 

** I WONDER where Christine can be I” said Madeline to Colo- 
nel Steele about half-past nine o’clock that evening, as she 
rested a moment with him on the western balcony, after one of 
those prolonged and breathless waltzes for which he was so fa- 
mous. “It is just like her to have gone home to read the 
paper to her father, or make jelly for some of Dr. Catherwood’s 
poor patients.” 

“ Ah !” said the Colonel, carelessly, “ Dr. Catherwood has 
then a benevolent turn of mind ?” 

“Oh, not extraordinarily so, I think; only a physician has so 
many calls upon his charity, and I believe he turns them all 
over to the Parsonage. I really think he imposes on Christine ; 
no other girl would stand it, but then she is like no other girl. 
For instance, he is always there, just as much at home as if it 
were his own house, and yet he never thinks of paying Chris- 
tine any of the attentions which their hospitality deserves. He 
treats her in a way that cannot flatter her — as if she were a 
child or a near relative ; or, in fact, sometimes as if she wer 
not in existence or a perfect stranger to him. Now that’s not 
flattering. Colonel Steele; do you think it is?” 

“Well, but Miss Clybourne, think of the difference in their 
ages ; Miss Christine is so very young.” 


VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 


125 


“ Why, yes, if you call seventeen so very young. But Dr. 
Catherwoocl is not so very old. Colonel Steele ; I do not call 
thirty-five or thirty-seven old ; do you ? And I call Dr. Cather- 
wood a very handsome and a very fascinating man, and if 
Christine were not like a little nun, she would not have her 
heart in her own keeping now, seeing him so often.” 

“ Miss Clybourne, that is an admission. How often do yon 
see him, may I ask ?” 

“ Not every day, by any means. But I do acknowledge, , 
when Dr. Catherwood talks to me, I think he is perfection, and 
I wish he thought it was his duty to come to see mamma aa 
often as he goes to see the Rector ; and I am sure of one thing, 

I would make better use of my advantages than Christine 
makes of hers, the silly child. Why, she is a study, that 
Christine, I do assure you. Colonel Steele.” 

Colonel Steele smiled sublimely and indifferently, as if the 
only study that had any interest for him was endorsed Cly- 
bourne, M., for Colonel Steele had been a lady’s man too long 
to talk with admiration of one woman to another. 

He was very willing to keep Madeline on the subject on 
which she had begun, however, and tried to draw her out upon 
it ; but she was by far too restless to be long upon one thing, 
and could not be contented unless she was being flattered or 
excited in some way. She liked Colonel Steele very well while 
he was flattering her, or dancing with her, or making her walk 
up and down the parlors with him, while everybody’s eyes fol- 
lowed them with admiration. She had said, truly too, while 
Dr. Catherwood talked to her she thought he was perfection, 
and wished very much that she ‘could make it worth his while 
to fall in love with her. Even Mr. Leslie’s triple extract of 
devotion pleased her for the moment, and set her to dreaming 
of what true love might be. It was all excitement and uncer- 
tainty in her immature and undisciplined heart as yet ; a thou- 
sand contradictory impulses emanated from it — a thousand 


.126 


VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 


delnsive and uncertain rays gleamed out of it — a thousand 
unformed thoughts and wishes struggled in it ; it was liarsh to 
blame her for deluding others, when she was as much bewil- 
dered as she bewildered them. What place the young minis- 
ter had in reality in this half-grown, ignorant, and fitful heart, 
she could not have told herself ; her mother watching her night 
and day could not have told, the world with its sharpest lorg- 
nette at its eye could not have told correctly. 

She seemed ambitious, because she was high-spirited and full 
of an eager hopefulness that had formed no worthier aim than 
had been placed before her. She seemed vain, because she was 
overflowing with the happiness that comes from winning love 
and homage, and because she had not the discretion to conceal 
the source from whence her pleasure came. She seemed 
deceitful and coquettish, because her eyes and her lips both 
spoke feeling that they did not long retain ; both uttered that 
which was only truth for the moment — that which was called 
up by what she saw in others, and which faded before she 
recognised its shape herself. The true heart, the true love, 
were struggling into birth ; it was all chaos now. A miserable 
man he, whose happiness hung upon what he could gather of 
her heart from what he saw upon the surface. 

“ Another waltz. Miss Clybourne ? That music is delicious,” 
half whispered Colonel Steele as he caught the strains within. 
Madeline said yes, with a beaming look of pleasure as she 
caught them too, for music set her pulses beating always. 

In a moment they were in the room, her band in his, his arm 
upon her waist, just ready to move down the room in the lovely 
deux temps motion, when her eye fell upon something that 
made her start and pause, and withdraw her hand suddenly 
from his. 

“ Oh, I don’t think I’ll dance,” she said, drawing back. 

He gave her a look of surprise that made her falter and 
color. 


VALSJE A DEUX TEMUS. 


127 


“ I — that is — you had better ask somebody else. I do not 
think T can dance any more ; I wish you would excuse me.” 

She had caught sight of Mr. Brockhulst entering the room, 
and her impulse had been to get out of the position ^ihe was in, 
and not to let him see her dancing. She did not put this into 
words. She did not define to herself the feeling that made her 
shrink from being seen by him with Colonel Steele’s arm upon 
her waist, and with the eyes of all the room upon her as she 
floated through it to that most bewitching music. She had 
never felt before that it was wrong to dance. She had never 
felt before that there was anything to blush about in that arm 
upon her waist. These thoughts flashed through her mind for 
the first time as she caught sight of Mr. Brockhulst’s face, 
though he had not seen her, though he had looked no reproach. 
She felt, though she did not know she felt it, the true test of 
purity and womanliness at that moment; there was but one 
who had a right to what she was giving to every one that 
asked it. She passed through a trial at that short instant that 
gave its color to her whole future life. That sudden doubt, 
that strong conviction — how could she have put them aside ? 

But she did ; she listened a moment too long to her com- 
panion’s pleading whisper — a moment too long to the alluring 
music; she subjected her feelings to too material and common- 
place a criticism ; she vowed to hei^^elf she could not see the 
wrong. She only did what all the world was doing ; she 
would not listen to such scruples ; she did not care enough 
what Mr. Brockhulst thought to make her lose her pleasure ; 
after all, he might not care; and if he did, did she? And so 
she yielded to the embrace that a moment before she had 
shrunk from in alarm, and floated down the room with as per- 
fect a grace as ever, but with less perfect innocence. 

And Mr. Brockhulst, making his way across the room, caught 
suddenly the beautiful and hateful vision, and felt as if his life 
were worthless to him after he had seen it. He was new to all 


128 


VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 


this — the world was the world to him as yet, and one of his throe 
enemies. His face must have shown his dismay and pain, for 
Madeline, pausing at last, glanced at him and felt her heart 
sink involuntarily. His eyes were averted and he was near the 
door, looking as if he felt himself most miserably out of place, 
and as if he cared for nothing so much as to escape from the 
scene in which he found himself. Madeline would have given 
worlds to have undone the work of the last ten minutes ; the 
music had ceased, the thrill of excitement was over ; she was 
weary and disenchanted, and Colonel Steele, looking heated and 
commonplace, seemed almost impertinent in his care of her, 
urging her to go into the hall for the fresh air, to let him get 
her an ice, to sit down by the window, to do anything, in ,fact, 
to allow him to show his right and his desire to be devoted. 

How she hated herself! If she only had been firm I She 
wished she were Christine reading the paper to her father in 
the quiet old Parsonage parlor, or the little Richfield sitting in 
dull propriety between her mother and her elder sister near the 
folding doors. She looked discontented and weary, and when 
some gentleman came up to ask her to dance with him again, 
she refused haughtily and ungen tly, and then felt disgraced a 
moment after, and the next comer found her more gracious and 
less dignified than she had ever been before. She consented to 
let Colonel Steele get her an ice, and she walked up and down 
the hall with two or three of his military confreres while he 
went for it, they keeping up a laughing rivalry for her favor, 
and making that open and extravagant show of devotion which 
may be amusing, but is never flattering to a woman. 

Madeline felt this ; she felt these oflScers would not have 
talked so to Christine; she felt that in some way she was low- 
ered by her belleship. 

The fact was, she was too high-toned for the r61e she had 
undertake^', to play ; she was too finely made to be the popular 
beauty she aspired to be ; she could not be an indiscriminate 


VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 


129 


favorite without damage to her delicacy of feeling. These men 
did not understand her, because she was not commonplace ; her 
beauty was striking and brilliant, and it attracted them ; but » 
soulless and less refined beauty would have attracted them as 
much. Madeline was refined, she had soul, but they could not 
understand the difference between her and the other girls they 
danced with in society, except that she was handsomer and 
fresher. Her manners had the abandon and gaietw of youth, 
sometimes the daring and impetuosity of talent and wit that 
she had not learned to smother ; they could not detect that 
freedom of thought and levity of character were very different 
things. And by their treatment of her they were leading her 
fast to what they supposed her to be ; or rather, to more than 
they supposed her to be, for commonplace was impossible to 
her, and satisfaction in such homage as they could pay her 
could not last long. 

She passed and repassed Mr. Brockhulst standing near the 
door talking with ill-concealed want of interest to a group of 
three or four ; she tried to catch his eye, to loiter long enough 
in passing to give him an opportunity of joining her — but it 
was in vain. He never glanced towards her, never gave the 
least indication that he knew of her vicinity. At length im- 
patient of this treatment, and lacking the self-control to conceal 
her chagrin, she declined continuing her promenade any farther, 
and sat down on a sofa near the group in which her interest 
centred. She was too abstracted to be agreeable long to her 
admirers ; her eagerness to catch the voices of her neighbors 
interfered extremely with listening to what the admirers had to 
say to her, and soon she was left with only one, who stayed 
more from good manners than great interest. 

The sofa on which they were sitting was near the front door, 
the group of gentlemen around Mr. Brockhulst stood just 
beyond them, beside the first parlor door. Madeline presently 
saw a man come up the steps of the piazza and look anxiously 

6 + 


130 


VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 


and awkwardly aiound him for some one to whom to make hia 
errand known. He was a roughly dressed man, in dusty mil- 
ler’s clothes, and his anxious face and working-day apparel con- 
trasted strongly with the festival scene which he was approach- 
ing. He looked at the knocker and at the bell, and seemed 
rather afraid of both, hesitating awkwardly and glancing up 
and down the piazza and the hall. 

“ What does that man want ?” said Madeline, getting up and 
going to the door, followed by Mr. Leslie. 

The man responded to her inquiry by saying : “ The minis- 
ter, Miss ; they say he’s here.” 

“ Oh yes,” said Madeline, starting forward. “ I’ll tell him.” 

But before she had said the words, he had turned quickly 
and was coming to the door, showing he had been listening 
though he had not been looking. 

“ What is it, Tom ?” he said, laying his hand upon the door- 
post, the man standing just outside the sill, Madeline and her 
companion just inside it. “ Any trouble at the mill ?” 

“ Bad enough, sir,” said the man. “ The miller’s boy is 
drowned, and the miller’s wife, she’s in a dreadful way ; and 
the boss himself, he says to me : ‘ Tom, run, ask the minister to 
come down ; maybe he’ll think o’ something he can say to her;’ 
and so they told me at. your place you was here, and so I come 
here for you if you can spare the time.” 

“Drowned !” repeated the minister, with an expression ^of the 
deepest feeling. “Tom, are. you quite sure there is no hope — 
that there isn’t some mistake ?” 

Tom shook his head. “You wouldn’t think so if you’d 
been with me and Dr. Catherwood when w'e drew him up from 
under that big wheel, as dead and cold as if he’d been there for 
a vreek — and heavy ! You never felt nothing like the weight 
of that poor boy. It was horrid business takin’ him down to 
his mother — though the Doctor kept tellin’ her there was a 
good many chances he might be revived. But they’ve been 


VALSE A ^DEUX TEMPS. 


J3} 

workin’ over him these two nours and more, and there isn’t 
many chances left, you see — if ever there was any at the start.” 

The minister, during this recital, had gone to the table near 
him for his hat, and without a look or word to any one, had 
hurried down the steps accompanied by the man. 

“ That’s where Christine is, I suppose,” said Madeline, 
thoughtfully, looking after them. “ Harry Gilmore was at the 
Fair this afternoon with Julian. It seems frightful. Mr. Leslie 
go ask mamma if she is not almost ready to go home.” 


182 


A YIGIL. 


CHAPTER XX. 

A VIGIL. 

” The Saints will aid, if men will call, ^ 

For the blue sky bends over all.** 

“Christine, go home,” said Dr. Catherwood in a low tone, 
taking her by the hand and leading her out into the little porch 
before the miller’s house. “ I have desired you to go before ; 
now I must command it — see,” he added, taking out his watch 
and leaning back to look at it by the light from the room they 
had just left. “ See, it is past twelve, and I did not ask you to 
go till the boy revived — now there is no excuse. You can do 
nothing — I shall stay here all night, though I assure you I 
feel safe about him, and there are Mr. Brockhulst and Tom, and 
twenty others if I wanted them, to help me in watching over 
him. You cannot be of any comfort to the mother ; I believe 
her to be half insane, and your presence only has the effect of 
exciting her just now. Where is your bonnet? There, put it 
on and go home ; it is very dark, but I know you do not mind — 
T will send Tom, the miller’s man, with you for protection.” 

“ But I wish you would let me stay,” faltered Christine, im- 
ploringly. “If any change should happen.” 

“ But no change will happen,” said the Doctor firmly, “ except 
the change we all desire to see; my dear child, this is very foolish !” 

For Christine, sinking down upon the bench outside the door, 
had covered her face with her hands and given way to a burst 
of tears. He drew the door shut, so that no one within should 
hear her, and sat down at her side. He did not very much 
wonder that she had given way at last. He had been watching 


A VIGIL. 


133 


her anxiously for several hours, expecting every moment the 
failure of endurance that had come. He had not had the heart 
to send her away before he had any hope to give her, though 
he had felt regret for the injury that the dreadful scene was 
doing her. The sight of the raving mother, the dumb stricken 
father, the white, deathlike face of the boy upon the bed, with 
the deep, black bruise between his eyes, would have been 
severely trying to such sensitive nerves and such a tender heart 
as hers, if the dreadful thought that it was all Julian’s work, 
and so all in a manner her responsibility, had not for ever been 
present in her mind, till she felt, and spoke, and looked like one 
in a frightful trance. 

Dr. Gather wood had, at present, no desire so strong as to get 
her home and in a way of resting, quieted by the thought that 
the danger was almost over, and yet he did not dare to leave 
the house long enough to take her to the Parsonage. lie 
longed to soothe her, but he did not dare to enter on the sub- 
ject that was now the only thought she had, fearing it would 
bring up too much to be controlled at present, and yet he must 
try to quiet her in some way. It was hard not to show her any 
sympathy, nor allow her to see how his heart had ached for 
her, and how thoroughly he understood her. So he said 
quietly, drawing away her hand from her face : 

“ Don’t let them hear you, my dear Christine. It is very 
natural you should be unnerved after such a long and exciting 
day. You need rest very much. Let us see ! You were busy 
all the morning getting things ready for the Fair, and from ten 
o’clock till seven' you were standing in the tent, busy and excit- 
ed all the time. I doubt if you have had a half hour of quiet 
since breakfast time this morning.” 

Christine raised her head and articulated through her sobs : 
“ Do not talk about my resting ; you know it is not that.” 

“ I know it is just that,” he said. “ I know your nerves are 
perfectly unstrung by excitement, alarm, and over-fatigue.” 


134 


A VIGIL. 


“Then why do yon reproach me for crying?” she said, sink- 
ing back again and covering her face. “ Oh ! I wish^ you would 
tell me if there is really any hope, and not try to pacify me as 
you do !” 

“ Do you suppose I would deceive you ?” he said, seriously. 

“ No, oh no ! not deceive me, exactly ; but you are so sorry 
for me you want to believe so yourself, whatever the truth may 
be. You know it would kill me if this boy should die, and 
you try to convince yourself and mo that he will live. But he 
will not ! I know before the night is over that little spark is 
going out. I know it and you fear it, and yet you tell me to 
go home and rest ! Home ! How can I get rest at home ? 
That is the last place — I do not ever want to go home again — 
I wish I could die this moment — I shall die with all this load 
upon me.” 

“ Christine,” said her companion, standing beside her and 
speaking in a firm and serious voice, “ I tried to spare you this, 
and you would have been wiser to have submitted to me and 
controlled yourself. But since it has expressed itself, let us talk 
calmly of what I fear you to be incapable of thinking calmly 
now. It is wiser to strangle doubts and fears than to give 
them words and make them real ; but you have done it and it is 
too late. In the first place, you cannot fully trust me ; you do 
not think I believe what I have told you in regard to the boy’s 
state. That is unjust, for you cannot recall a single instance in 
which you can say I have deceived you. I have told you the 
truth about the boy ; I believe he will recover ; I did not think 
of telling you to go away until I was convinced the danger had 
passed over ; and now about the dread of meeting your fiither 
and of seeing Julian. You need not tell your father any- 
thing unless you choose. I will tell him all to-morrow. And 
for Julian, would you have had any such feeling about him if 
he had thrown his companion on the green turf instead of off 
into the deep water ? The fault on his part would have been 


A VIGIL. 


135 


the same. He had no intention of doing anything more in this 
case than he would have had in that. You must judge of sins 
by their actual intentions, not their accidental results. Harry’s 
design was no more innocent than Julian’s; if he had had the 
strength and skill to do what Julian, aided by accident, has done, 
Julian would have been lying now where Harry is. Be thank- 
ful that things are no worse, -and do not think of possibilities, 
for that is always folly. I ask you not to exaggerate Julian’s 
fault, while I do not attempt to excuse it myself ; I shall treat 
it to him as seriously as if it had had the worst result, and I sin- 
cerely hope the alarm he has gone through will have a good 
effect upon him. This may be the happiest thing for him. I 
certainly am not without hope that it was for that purpose that 
it was allowed to happen. Do not endeavor to speak to him 
yourself about it. Leave that to me ; I think I begin to under- 
stand him better, and a man always has more authority. If 
you arc willing to be guided by me, do this ; go home, satisfied 
with what I have told you of the boy’s condition ; do not allow 
yourself to think, or reason, or look back. You can do none 
of these things calmly now. You must only try to divert 
yourself from thought. See no one to-night. Sleep if possi- 
ble; lie still at all events; I will bring you the earliest reports 
from here ; if I am not at the Parsonage before the family are 
down, act as if nothing had occurred ; meet Julian seriously 
but simply. Do not give him the impression you are horrified 
at him, and yet do not be affectionate. Are you willing to do 
all this and to trust that this once I know best?” 

Christine made some sign of assent and rose, taking her bon- 
net from her companion’s hand and going towards the steps 
without a word. 

“ Wait till I call Tom,” he said ; “ and now, good-night.” 

Perhaps he ought not to have been disappointed that her 
good-night was so languid and docile as she passed out of the 
gate, followed by Tom, leaving him lookicg after them, or 


136 


A VIGIL. 


rather listening after them, for the night was dense and black, 
and Christine’s white dress was swallowed up by the darkness 
half a minute after he had parted from her. He only waited 
for a moment listening for her receding steps along the gravel 
path, and then laid his hand upon the latch and went back into 
the room where Harry Gilmore lay feverish and unconscious on 
the bed, watched over by the pale young minister, and his 
clumsy-handed, tender-hearted father. The mother, with 
strangely gleaming eyes, sat beside the hearth, with face 
averted, beating her foot upon the rug and pressing her lips 
close together. She was a woman to make one afraid as she 
looked then — a “ bear robbed of her whelps,” a fierce lioness 
crouching beside the lair that treachery and cruelty have deso- 
lated, and lashing silently with the wrath and hate that fill her. 
Dr. Catherwood felt a shiver as he looked at her ; there was a 
dangerous meaning in her eyes as she saw that he came in 
alone. 

“I have sent Miss Upham home,” he said, in a low voice, as 
he passed by her, “ and you yourself had better go to bed.” 

A sneer passed over her features as she turned away her 
head. 

“ Richard and Mr. Brockhulst will sit up for the present,” he 
w^ent on, “and I shall not go away at all. You may as well 
take a little rest ; I shall watch every change.” 

“ Ho doubt you will,” she muttered, under her breath ; “ no 
doubt, it will be worse for the parson’s grandson if you do not 
bring him through — it will be no fault of yours if Julian 
Upham sleeps to-morrow night in jail ; you’ll do your best to 
bring my boy through this. Oh, yes. I know you will. T 
know how good you are, all you rich people, and how you held 
together.” 

“Listen,” said Dr. Catherwood, putting his hand with a 
pretty heavy emphasis upon her shoulder and speaking into 
her ear as he leaned down ; “ let me hear no more of this ; as 


A VIGIL. 


137 


Burely as I do, you will have cause to rue it. I will save the 
boy if he cau be saved, but not because his living or his dying 
will make a straw’s difference in Julian Uphain’s future. I 
want you to understand fully, now, at this point, before the 
doubt about his recovery is quite gone, and before I have 
spoken to any one but you, that there are witnesses, of whom I 
am one, who can prove Julian’s act was one of self-defence ; 
that Harry was struggling to do what Julian did accidentally. 
Julian might as welhhave been the victim. Harry is twice as 
strong as he, and ought to be ashamed for daring to lay a fin- 
ger on a boy who isn’t half his size. If he gets better, he 
shall be made an example of, should such a thing occur again. 
They are both bad boys, though everybody inclines to Julian’s 
side, because he is so little. I do not for my part think Harry 
is any more to blame than he. He is not wickedly bent, I 
think, but you have brought him up badly ; and this, I hope, 
will be a lesson to you. You must have some authority over 
him, or you will see worse scenes than this. I have not said 
half as much as I might say, or as I meant to say when I 
began. I am sorry for you, and I should not have spoken, but 
I thought it best to stop you from making trouble for your- 
self and for your boy, if he ever lives to feel the need of a fair 
name and the good-will of those around him. Now, I want 
quiet in the room, and you must leave it, or be silent and not 
make a sign that you are here.” 

Phoebe* Gilmore’s face was white and her lips purple with the 
swelling passion that gleamed out from her eyes, but she was 
mastered by the unexpected sternness and authority of one to 
whom all looked for sympathy and kindness. It was the first 
time in her life she ever had been subdued, by man or woman, 
when her temper had once got possession of her ; she was 
fairly stunned by the force of a will so much stronger than her 
own, so rough and ruthless, too, where all the world would 
have been tender and considerate. His hand had been heavy 


138 


A yiGlT^ 


and strong upon lier shoulder, his voice low but stern, with a 
vehement intention in every accentuated syllable; his eyes, 
when she once met them, had had a look that she had trem- 
bled under. She threw one glance after him as he moved 
towards the bed, whence a faint moan had come, and then 
sat like a stone and gave no sign that she heard or had an 
interest in what was going on around her. 

The doctor’s check was a little flushed as he bent over the 
oed, and his cool hand a thought less steady as he laid it on 
the boy’s fevered skin ; there was a dark, angry trouble in his 
eyes, too, unlike their ordinary clear, true light, for, Christian 
man as he was, he had that moment spoken an untruth, that 
moment laid a cruel lash on one whose suffering should have 
made her sacred. It was the only way to manage her, the 
only way to prevent a scandal and to spare Christine. He had 
said he would save the boy if he could be saved, but not be- 
cause it would make a straw’s difference in Julian’s future. 
What a strange contradiction was his troubled, darkened glance, 
as the fever thickened and quickened in the child’s swollen 
veins, as the black bruise between his eyes deepened and grew 
broader ! What a tale his unsteady fingers told as he strove 
to measure out the draughts, whose effects he watched with 
such ill-concealed anxiety ! He had an interest in Harry Gil- 
more’s safety that he hoped to conceal from others, that he felt 
made him a coward and a hypocrite. It was all very well to 
persuade Christine and to force it upon this woman that Julian 
had no concern in his recovery ; but he knew too well what 
fallacy t was. If this boy died, Julian’s future would receive 
a blight from which it could not be redeemed ; the scandal, the 
publicity of what would follow the death of his young victim, 
would never be forgotten — would cling to him for life, make 
him what naturally he inclined to be, would lead him to what 
nothing but tenderness and watchfulness extreme could save him 
from — the career of an outlaw and a reprobate. If there were 


A VIGIL. 


139 


any good latent in him, this horrid and sickening occurrence 
would crush it out completely, would ripen into early maturity 
the evil of his nature. 

Julian’s doom was written if the miller’s son should die ; 
before the light of morning crept into that low room where ho 
lay it would be decided; and the hours seemed like a lifetime 
to the two men who watched beside him. 


140 A TEW minutes’ QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

A FEW minutes’ quiet TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 

“ Many a shaft at random sent, 

Finds mark the archer little meant ; 

And many a word at random spoken, 

May heal or wound a heart that’s broken.” 

“ Is your master down ?” said Dr. Catlierwood, as he came 
upon the tidy maid next morning sweeping the steps of the 
Parsonage piazza. 

“ Not yet, sir,” she answered, pausing as he passed, with a 
very pleasant, blushy smile. “ It is half an hour to breakfast- 
time. No one is down but Master Julian.” 

“ And where is he ?” Dr. Catlierwood turned shortly round 
and spoke with something pained and hurried in his tone. 

“ Gone off to fish, I think, sir; I saw he had a pole and 
creel. Most likely he is at tTie brook.” 

“ Send him to me, will you, if he returns before the family 
come down ?” he said, going on into the house. 

* The windows of the parlor were all open, the cool morning 
breeze was waving the white curtains, the room was all in order, 
all fresh from Ann’s feather brush and tidying touch. There 
was no trace of its inhabitants of the night before, the cush 
ions of the sofa were shaken out and smoothed, and laid ex- 
actly in their places ; the books upon the table were lying at 
right angles with the edges ; Christine’s work-box was shut, and 
the piano was closed and the music-rack was in good order ; in 
fact, the room looked as if it were asleep or in a happy tr.mce. 
Dr. Catlierwood threw himself upon the sofa and pushed the 


A. FEW MINUTES’ QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 141 

cushion under his head. He was tired, though he did not care 
to acknowledge it. Even the most perfect physique feels a lit- 
tle languor under the trial of a sleepless night and intense men- 
tal activity for many hours. 

Half an hour to breakfast, he thought, as his eyes fell on the 
clock ; that was a real annoyance, for he was hungry, and had 
no time to lose, besides. What should he do ? Why, wait of 
course ; and so his troubled eye closed, and his knit forehead 
smoothed itself out, and he slept profoundly. 

Christine coming down presently, gave a start and almost 
dropped the vase of flowers she held, as she caught sight of 
him asleep upon the sofa. She came in softly after a moment, 
darkened the blinds a little, threw a sofa blanket over him, and 
stole away to the piazza to watch for his awaking through the 
window. W^hen he awoke, it was to see her face watching his 
through the white curtains, like an angel looking through the 
clouds. It was gone like a gleam of light, though ; as he raised 
his eyes, he called “ Christine,” and presently she came in at 
the door looking pale and frightened, and stopping as far from 
the sofa as she could, and yet be in the room. 

“ Is breakfast ready ?” he said, not getting up, but throwing 
the sofa blanket back. 

“ In a moment,” she said, turning and about to .disappear. 

“ Come here,” he said, “ I want to speak to you. Is youi 
father down ?” 

« — that is — I believe he isn’t well this morning ; ho will 

not come down.” 

“ So we shall take our breakfast alone together. After you 
ring the bell for Ann, come here ; I want to see you, as I said.” 

Christine went across the room and rang the bell for Ann, 
and then came and sat down beside him. Madeline would have 
been very much shocked that he did not rise, only passed his 
hand through his hair and pushed the sofa cushion a little 
higher, and lay looking at Christine, who sat before him with a 


142 A FEW MINUTES’ QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 

curious expression. “ I am desperately tired,” he said, pulling 
out his watch. “ I must have been asleep three quarters of an 
hour ; how long since you came down ?” 

“ About that time,” Christine said, faintly. 

“ And you have been waiting for me ? Why did you not 
wake me up ?” 

“ Why ? I was very glad that you should have some sleep ; 
knew you must be tired.” 

“But if you will tell the truth, you will say you were very 
glad when I waked up; you know you want to hear how the 
boy is, though you do not dare to ask me.” 

“ I know you would not be here if he were not better,” she 
said, half reassured by his quiet manner, though not quite able 
yet to banish doubt. 

“ Well, Christine, thank God, he is better,” said her compa- 
nion with a sudden movement, rising and taking her hand in 
his. “ Heaviness has endured for a night ; you and I never 
will forget.” 

For a moment the tears swam in Christine’s eyes. “ Voyons,” 
he said, in a changed tone, letting go her hand and turning to 
the window, “ ring again for Ann ; I am not only tired but 
hungry.” 

“Ann is coming,” Christine said, going to the table quickly 
and bending' down to make the tea. Ann put the biscuits and 
the omelette, and the thin slices of pink ham upon the table, 
and placing a chair said : “ Shall I call Dr. Catherwood, 
Miss ?” 

Ann was rather sentimental about the visitor and her young 
mistress; she and the laundry-maid were quite agreed that 
something would come of it. She always watched Christine 
very sharply when Dr. Catherwood was there, and she saw that 
there were tears upon her eyelashes as she said yes, and sat 
down. 

They had their breakfast quite en tete-d-tHe, Julian did not 


A FEW MINUTES’ QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 143 

come in, and while Ann went up stairs to take a biscuit and a 
cup of coflfee to her master’s room, Dr. Gather wood said : 

“ Send away Ann, will you ? I want to have a few minutes’ 
quiet talk with you about Julian, while I am finishing my 
breakfast.” 

A few minutes’ quiet talk about Julian ! A few minutes’ quiet 
talk about the sword that was flashing above her head swaying 
by a hair ; a few minutes’ quiet talk about the pain that swelled 
her heart to bursting at the mention of his name. Dr. Gather- 
wood knew that she had eaten all the breakfast that she could 
before he spoke, and this time was as good as any other. So 
after Ann was sent away with an intelligent elevation of the 
eyebrows, as- she softly closed the door, he said in an easy tone, 
though not a trifling one, as he pushed his plate of fruit back 
and leaned forward on his arm : 

“Julian’s a bad boy, Ghristine, there is no denying it, and I 
have been thinking latterly you could not do a better thing 
than to send him away to school. He’s fourteen now, and he 
needs more discipline than he can get at home. I do not think 
his companions here are altogether the most improving for him, 
and though I like Mr. Brockhulst very much, I do not think 
him particularly well fitted to manage such a boy as Julian. I 
have thought about it a good deal ; it is no new idea, and this 
last escapade has only confirmed me in it. Your father, I fancy, 
would approve of it.” 

“ It is impossible,” said Ghristine, quickly ; “ I hope you will 
not speak to him about it. Julian cannot go away from home ; 
it is utterly impossible.” 

“ I do not understand,” said Dr. Gatherwood, surprised at 
her decision. “ You do not think it would benefit him ?” 

“ There are reasons that make it utterly out of the question,” 
she returned, hastily — then paused and looked up in alarm lest 
she had been rude. 

“ Suppose you tell me what they are,” he said, with a smile, 


144 A FEW MINUTES QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 

meeting her eye. “ We are en rapport about this matter, are 
we not? and I cannot even conjecture why you feel so about 
his leaving you.” 

“I am afraid I cannot tell you,” said Christine, looking 
troubled. 

“ Perhaps I can save you the trouble. Is it because you 
cannot bear to part with him ? That would do for a mother to 
say, but not for you. You love Julian faithfully and dutifully^ 
but he does not add to the pleasure of your life. You would 
be much younger and lighter-hearted if he were away from you 
a while'. He is a great, a wearing, a constant trial to you.” 

Christine frowned and turned her face away; she felt that no 
one had a right to say that to her. 

“Besides, it would be a weakness I should regret to see in 
you, keeping him by you to save yourself from any silly scruple 
or uneasiness about him. By-and-by he must leave you ; 
whether for his good or evil. He cannot or will not stay always 
at home. You will do well to anticipate the necessity and send 
him when it may be of benefit to him.” 

“He will not go till he is old enough to do without me, and 
to know how to defend himself against — against — ” 

“ Against whom ? They tell you dreadful stories about 
schoolboys, no doubt, but you must remember they are not 
many of them founded on fact. I have been a boy myself, 
you know ; ever so long ago, to be sure, but not so long but 
that I can remember how many boys I thrashed, and how many 
boys thrashed me. Julian is able to take care of himselt^ 
depend upon it. Ho will be cock of the walk before he has 
been at school a month ; he will need no one to defend him.” 

“ I am not so foolish, Dr. Catherwood. I am not thinking 
about that. I know Julian will not suffer as much as most boys 
in that way. It is not that I mean. You cannot understand 
me. The reasons that make it impossible to send Julian away 
would apply to no other child on earth — he is one alone by 


* A FEW minutes’ QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 145 

himself, poor boy. He must never go away from here till he 
is a man. He has a home, though he lacks all else that other 
children have.” 

“ Tell me,” said her companion, with hesitation and anxiety ; 

you cannot mean — I am afraid this seems unwarrantable — 
but you know how deep the interest that I feel — it is not possi- 
ble that the expenses of his education are any difficulty. For- 
give me for asking, Christine — but I had always understood — I 
had never had a doubt — his — his mother’s fortune was ample 
for all that.” 

Christine colored a little, then forced herself to speak. “I 
am sure if any one has a right to know, you have, Dr. Cather- 
wood. I ought to have told you before, perhaps, but everything 
connected with — with that time, is so painful. He has not any- 
thing, I suppose ; all the money went before they came to us. 
But that would never be a difficulty. What they call mine, 
you know, is just the same as his. I should never have used 
a quarter of it, even if I had not promised he should have the 
half.” 

“Promised,” said her companion, raising his head; “pro- 
mised whom ?” 

“Helena — my sister — his mother,” she returned, in a low 
voice. 

“And your father consented to this?” he said, rising and 
walking backward and forward through the room and stopping 
before her. 

“My father knows nothing about it,” she said, looking up 
quickly ; “ and that is. what I want to say, you must never speak 
to him about it ; I said he should never know.” 

“Ah!” he said, with a sigh of relief, “ that is all right. I 
shall never mention it to him, you may be sure.” 

There was a pause, while Dr. Catherwood walked up and 
down the room, and Christine pushed her chair back from the 
table. 


7 


146 Jl few minutes’ quiet talk about JULIAN. 

“Well,” he said, after a few moments standing and looking 
out of the window, his face away from her, “ then, is it that you 
do not want to go to him about it, and make any confession of 
your promise? Because I could arrange it for you, if you 
chose, without any necessity of speaking to him on that matter.” 

“It is not that,” said Christine, speaking as if it cost her a 
great effort ; “ my father would not spare anything in educat- 
ing Julian. He knows how I would feel, and his own income 
is sufficient to give him every advantage. He shall have a 
tutor; he shall not be neglected ; but he must not go away 
from home. I cannot break my promise.” 

Her companion turned suddenly towards her, but averted his 
face again without speaking. 

“ I wish you knew, and I did not have to tell you,” she said, 
in a voice that sounded very plaintive; “I want you to know 
all about him, but it hurts mo so to think it over, much more to 
talk of it to any one. We have been very unhappy here. Dr. 
Catherwood, though we all seem well enough now. I am the 
only one left of a great many that were a great deal better and 
more lovely; and the best, the most beautiful of all, had better 
have died when she was a little child like the others, than have 
lived to see the misery she did. That was Julian’s mother, the 
oldest of all, and my father’s darling. Oh, if I had only died 
in her place, and left her to comfort him and to take care of 
Julian ! But that could not be, and I must try to do the best 1 
can for them. What made her misery was — well, it was the 
worst thing that can happen to a woman — an unhappy mar- 
riage; a marriage to a man that hated, and ill-treated, and per- 
secuted her. Oh, I shudder at his very name ! I dread to 
think poor Julian must ever know it. I would give anything 
if I could spare him the misery of knowing what his father 
was. Such cruelty it was that killed Helena — it was that that 
drove her about the world trying to hide her boy from him. It 
was that that made her pet and pamper Julian, dreading the 


A FJiVV MINUTES’ QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 147 

day he might be stolen from her; and it was that that made 
her make me promise I never would lose sight of him till ho 
was a man. I would watch over him night and day, and keep 
him from his father. That was my promise. No considera- 
tion can possibly induce me to break through it. I know yor 
will not try to do it. I am sure you will help me do lU}; 
duty, and not try to make it hard to me. Julian must stay at 
home, as his mother said he must, and I must watch him as I 
said I would. Here he is almost safe, if anywhere. That 
man, whom I have to call his father, has been led to think he 
never came back hero ; that Helena left him at a school in 
Germany. He would not look for him here; he would not 
know him if he saw him, he is so altered ; his name is dropped 
completely, and, besides, bad and daring as the man has always 
been, he would not dare to come and claim him out of his 
grandfather’s house — out of the refuge his poor mother brought 
liim to when she was flying from his wickedness and crueltjL 
If he were away, at some strange place, there is no knowing 
what might happen. So you see you must not talk to me about 
letting him go away; it is impossible. You have often told 
mo not to worry about Julian ; now you see I cannot help it. 
I am very sorry I never told you before. I have often wanted 
to, but I never could make up my mind. You know now what 
is my life’s work, my life’s duty. Dr. Catherwood, to hide Julian 
from his father, and to make up to him in some way for the 
misfortune of his birth.” 

There was a moment’s perfect silence; Christine sat looking 
before her without moving, a flush upon her cheek, and with a 
resolved, womanly look. 

Dr. Catherwood, when at last he turned from the window, 
looked very pale and stern ; even his lips were ashy, and there 
was a blue line around them as he spoke : 

“We will not talk any more about it now,” he said, going 
into the room beyond. “ Perhaps it will be best for you to keep 


148 A FEW MINUTES’ QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 

liim witli you ; you know I cannot judge. I must now go to 
Uarry. Tell your father I was sorry not to see him this morn 
ing; if he needs me lie will send me word, I know.’^ 

Christine sat silent for several minutes after he had ceased 
speaking before she realized that he had gone; then she looked 
up and started. There was something in his manner, though 
she had not seen his face, that had made her feel he had been 
displeased with what she said, and yet she knew she had done 
right to say it. And there was something more that she was 
trying to make up her mind to say ; she had looked up with 
the words upon her lips, when she found that he had gone. 
This young girl had a very sacred idea of friendship ; she felt 
that she owed it to Dr. Catherwood, who was her best and 
truest friend, to tell him all about Helena and the promise she 
nad made to her, and there could be no better time than now. 
It was not very important, but she should feel better if he knew 
it all, and he would understand her better, and her position in 
society. He had spoken to her several times about the world 
and the men she would meet in it, as she knew he would not 
have spoken if he had known all. He had told her one day 
she must not marry any of the silly boys whom Madeline had 
around her ; and that Mr. Brockhulst even was too young and 
immature to be a lover fit for her. Such things made her un- 
comfortable when they came from him, even though he said 
them carelessly, for she felt that he had a right to know all, and 
that she was not quite honest in keeping silence about anything 
that would influence her life so much, even though it gave her 
the greatest pain to speak of it. He should know all about it, 
the very first moment that she was alone with him, she re- 
solved ; getting up and going to her father’s room with thepapei 
in her hand, pausing to say one thankful prayer for Harry Gil- 
more as she passed the sunny window of the upper hall that 
opened on the garden. 


X DANGER averted. 


149 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A DANGER AVERTED. 

“ Our many deeds, the thoughts that we have thought, 

They go out from us thronging every hour ; 

And in them all is folded up a power 
That on the earth doth move them to and fro ; 

And mighty are the marvels they have wrought, 

In hearts we know not, and may never know.” 

Faber. 

Dr. Upham did Dot leave bis room for a day or two after this; 
he wondered a great many times why Catherwood did not come 
in, and Christine wondered too, though she did not say anything 
about it. She had met him once or twice at the miller’s cot- 
tage, where she went a great many times every day, and he 
had been very kind, though always in a hurry, and she had not 
had the courage to ask him why he did not come; it was a 
thing so openly absurd to ask him to come to the Parsonage, 
which was exactly like his home to him. He had said the last 
time as he went out of Harry’s room, “I’m sorry Dr. Upham 
isn’t better; if he needs me, I know he will send me word.” 

There was a good deal of sickness in the neighborhood, it is 
true; the Doctor’s two horses were getting some hard worlj; 
all the babies within ten miles were taking advantage of this 
bad August weather to cut their teeth and to be very ill; but 
there had been a month of diphtheria early in the season, and 
Dr. Catherwood had always found time to be at the Parsonage 
at least once a day, and to take one meal out of every three at 
the table there. 

So Christine wondered and felt very unhappy, and thought 


150 


A DAXGEIl AVEliTED. 


lierself an ingrate when she looked at Harry Gilmore and saw 
that he was getting well. A few days ago she had thought 
if Harry got well there would be nothing else to wish for in 
the world ; now he was getting well, and her heart was heavy 
with a trouble she could not even understand. She tried to 
relieve her conscience by being very kind and attentive to 
Harry, taking him nice things from the Parsonage, getting him 
new books, and knives, and pictures, and sitting by him for 
hours and readino; to him. All these attentions Mrs. Gilmore 
received in a silent and ungracious manner, and with a gleam 
of the eye that was even more than ungracious. Christine did 
not understand it, but it* made her very uncomfortable, and 
going down to the cottage became a dreaded business. 

There were occasionally one or two neighbors sitting there, 
very straight in their chairs, with their best shawls on, and 
Christine thought they looked at her as if she were one of the 
Borgias. It was very likely they did, for the village was all 
aflame on the subject of Julian’s crime, but of course nothing 
came to Christine’s ears. And Dr. Upham’s temporary illness 
had kept him from all knowledge of the story, for Christine 
had not had the courage to tell him of it, nor indeed the heart 
to worry him with it while be was suffering so much in body. * 
She had followed Dr. Catherwood’s advice and had not said 
anything to Julian, leaving it for him to do, and he had not 
done it, she was almost sure. Julian had been more than 
usually restless and unruly. Crcscens and he had had many 
flerce encounters, and Christine with a shudder had heard him 
answer one of the servants with a rude and mockinof laush 
who had asked him if he wasn’t ashamed of himself to be 
acting so when Harry Gilmore lay half dead from what he’d 
done to him. She could only be silent and pray with a very 
heavy heart. 

At last, one evening, the third after these occurrences, when 
Christine took her father’s cup of tea up to him, he said, turn- 


A DANGER AVERTED. 


151 


ing a little restlessly in liis arm-chair : “ I do not see why 
Catherwood does not come ; I think I should like to see him 
' I do not quite understand this pain. Ring for Ann and let her 
go down for him.” 

Christine rang for Ann and sent her down to the Doctor’s 
cottage. The Doctor was at hom'f?, lying at half length on the 
cane sofa of the porch, smoking a lazy cigar after the day’s 
work, and listening to the rush of the water over the dam. 
He did not move when he saw Ann coming down the path, 
only said: “Well, Ann?” when she paused at the step, and 
slowly took the cigar out of his mouth. 

Ann delivered her message with the peculiar blushiness of 
pretty servant maids when they have messages to deliver to 
nice gentlemen, and Dr. Catherwood in return smiled a little 
and said : “ Tell Doctor Dphara I will come up presently.” 

lie smoked his cigar quite out, and lay listening to the water 
for a while after he had thrown it from him, then walked up 
and down the path several times before he went into the house 
and rang the bell. Rebekah, a silent, sturdy machine of a 
housekeeper, brought the lamp, and placed the tea upon the 
table in the little parlpr, and withdrew. He poured out first 
• one cup and then another, and drank them slowly. Rebekah 
came in and laid the evening paper on the table ; ho did 
not unfold it, but at last got up, rang the bell, and left the 
house. 

The fields at evening! — how sweet and thoughtful and calm 
they were ! He crossed them slowly, and went in at the Par- 
sonage gate just as Ann was pulling the hall lamp down to 
light it. There was no light in the parlor ; Dr. Catherwood 
looked in, and caught sight of Mr. Brockhulst walking up and 
down, and looking rather disturbed and uncomfortable. 

“Oh, good evening,” the latter said, stopping as he saw the 
new-comer. “ I was waiting till you came. Miss Upham said 
perhaps her father had better sec you first before I went up^ 


152 


A DANGER AVERTED. 


stairs, but if be is any more unwell, perhaps I had bettor post- 
pone my business ; to-morrow will do just as w^ell.” 

There was something in Mr. Brockhulst’s manner that said 
his business was very disagreeable, and he would be very glad 
to postpone it himself if there were any excuse for doing so, 
and Dr. Catherwood began immediately to conjecture of what 
it treated. Could it be Julian ? Mr. Brockhulst had the air 
of one who acts on the defensive, so Dr. Catherwood said, seat- 
ing himself : 

“ I have not seen Dr. Upham for several days. I do not 
know how much amiss he is. If you want to see him on any 
parish business, no doubt he can attend to it ; such matters are 
not apt to trouble him, I think. The Doctor has a very clear 
head ; I have seen him go through a great deal of hard think- 
ing w’^hen he was suflfering very acute pain.” 

“ It is nothing in regard to parish business,” said Mr. Brock- 
hulst, uncomfortably and with an evasive manner. “ But, I 
think, very possibly, it will be better to put off my interview 
till morning. I should like to see him before school-time. I 
will call, I think, a little after eight ” 

“ AproposJ^ said his companion, now quite certain what the 
business was, “what progress does Julian seem to make? I • 
have often meant to ask you ; he is a bright boy ; I have 
noticed him a good deal ; but very difficult to manage, I should 
apprehend.” 

“ It is of him I am come to speak to Dr. Upham,” he said, 
with a sudden change of plan. “ Dr. Catherwood, I am very 
unpleasantly fixed about that boy.” 

“ Ah !” said the Doctor, with mild interest. 

“ The fact is,” said the young minister, sitting down beside 
him, and speaking in a tone of resolution ; “ the fact is. Dr. 
Catherwood, I have determined that that boy shall be taken away 
from the school. I am willing his grandfather should put it in 
any shape he pleases. I do not want to make unpleasant feel- 


A DANGER AVERTED. 


153 


ing, but I will not be troubled with him any longer. I raigbt 
as well give up my school at once.” 

“That is unfortunate,” said Dr. Catherwood ; “as you sayi 
it puts you in a very unpleasant position ; you being, as it werei 
merely an assistant to the Rector, and he having planned the 
school and being so long a teacher of one himself.” 

“ As to that,” returned the younger man, with a touch of 
asperity in his tone, “ there may be many ways of looking at it.” 

“ And,” continued Dr. Catherwood, without noticing the in 
terruption, “I can understand how you feel about the impolicy 
of offending any of the Doctor’s friends among the vestry, such 
things are always so much magnified. I am afraid there would 
be a great clamor made. But if it is necessary — if the boy 
has done anything that cannot be overlooked, of course such 
considerations fall to the ground entirely. You must sacrifice 
your own interests to the interests of the school.” 

“ I cannot think Dr. Dpham would be unreasonable,” said 
the other, “ if I explained all to him ; I feel certain he will 
remove the boy without making any noise about it.” 

“It may be so,” returned Dr. Catherwood ; but, lowering his 
voice, “ I will say to you what has come to my knowledge, use 
it as you please ; Julian is to be educated at home. It is not 
intended to send him away till he is of age ; so that if he can 
no longer be under your tuition he will probably have a mas- 
ter in the house. This, of course, would draw a good deal of 
attention to the change ; and as Dr. Upham was instrumental 
in procuring scholars for you and furthering your plans, there 
would be a good deal said about the fact of his grandson’s 
being sent away as soon as the class was well established.” 

“I cannot help that,” he said, resolutely. “Dr. Upham will 
oe certain to agree with me when ho knows all I have had to 
undergo.” 

“ Oh, of course, if there is anything flagrant, anything that 
cannot be overlooked, as I said, your excuse would be accepted 


154 


A DANGER AVERTKD. 


by those concerned, whatever the world may say. Julian is a 
trying boy. I have no doubt but I think he may be managed, 
if things are started right. He is wilful, you see, and turbu- 
lent, but I have never seen the boy yet who was not to be led 
by a judicious flattery. Besides, one is apt to overrate such 
faults as his; now, for instance, about this little affair with 
Harry Gilmore ” 

“Yes, about that,” said the clergyman, in a tone of suppressed 
excitement. “ It would be difficult to overrate that, I think.” 

“On the contrary,” said Dr. Catherwood, with firmness, “it 
would be difficult to place it at its real value, having had such 
unfortunate results. But there are not two boys wrestling in 
your playground at recess every day, who do not commit as 
serious a fault, only there is no precipice over which one may 
push the other ; and the lucky boy who manages to keep upper- 
most gets nothing but a lecture from his mother for his damaged 
pantaloons. Consequences are not always true corollaries. 
Motives, I think, are admitted to have a certain weight, if not 
in law, at least in morals. A boy of twelve has a right to all 
the doubt that can exist in his judge’s mind ; and if his judge 
has been a boy himself within ten or twenty years, he will not 
find it difficult to excuse the hasty blow, the animal instinct of 
defence, the brute delight in strength, the blind and uncalculat- 
ing triumph. Harry Gilmore is as much to blame as Julian 
TJpham ; if you expel one, you must expel both. And if you 
expel both, Mr. Brockhulst, you send two boys out into the 
world with a brand upon them that they never can outgrow. I 
have watched those two; I know how nice a hand they need; 
and I trust you will forgave me if I say, in all the heavy charge 
that lies upon you, there is no heavier and no holier than the 
charge of them. Two men, honoring or dishonoring their 
manhood, will look back to this time, perhaps through life, and* 
bless or curse you for the bias that you gave them.” 

There was a moment’s silence, broken by the sound of a foot 


A DAIfGER AVERTED. 


155 


upon the piazza, and a flutter of white muslin at the parlor 
door. 

‘‘Ah, Miss Cly bourne!” said Dr. Catherwood, rising and 
meeting her, while Mr. Brockhulst started and bowed stiffly. 

“ Why, what a darkness,” said Madeline, coming in with a 
little hesitation. “Is Christine lost anywhere in it? or are you 
two gentlemen here alone ?” 

“ We two gentlemen are here alone,” returned Dr. Gather 
wood, with a smile. 

“ A pair of owds in the belfry could not be dismaller ; I hope 
you bring the dawn under your v/ings. Ah, and there comes 
Miss Christine 1” 

Christine came in, and Dr. Catherwood, after a few words to 
her, excused himself, and went up-stairs, and left the clergyman 
with the young ladies. 

In five minutes also the clergyman excused himself and 
went away, and Madeline, coloring angrily at his departure, sat 
dowui beside the window and begged Christine to counter- 
mand the order for the lamp. Christine was very willing, and 
the two sat in the darkness by the window, looking out into 
the dark and silent garden. 

Madeline w^as very impatient and very much out of humor 
with everybody, and Christine was very triste and quiet. 

“ Do you suppose Dr. Catherwood means to spend the even- 
ing in your father’s room?” said Madeline, at last. “For if 
he doesn’t come down soon and talk to me I shall go away. 
You are too dull to be endured, Christine. I came to bo 
amused ; I have had the gloomiest three days! Wait till you 
have to stay at the Hill and take care of Mrs. Sherman through 
a headache, and you will know what ennui is. I should not 
have stayed an hour if mamma had not made me : entre nous^ 
Christine, Mrs. Sherman is a selfish old affair, and only carss 
for us because we make her some amusement. I hope it may 
please Heaven to remove me before I am forty-five, if my latter 


156 


A DANGER AVERTED. 


end must be like bers. Why, Christine, she’s an old hypocrite ; 
her character all comes to pieces like her body, and I warn you 
to keep away from her dressing-room and sick-bed, if you want 
to preserve your reverence for her.” 

“ Hush,” said Christine, simply. 

“No, I will not. Why should I? Don’t you suppose she 
would say I was a bad-tempered girl if anybody asked her ? 
She will not think there is any necessity for being honorable 
after she has got all she wants out of me. I’ve eaten of her 
salt to be sure, but I only ate ' it while I was paying her 
well for it. You think it is necessary to be so grateful ? 
Do you suppose all she does is for us ? No ; it is for her- 
self. We have youth and spirits, and she can’t buy them 
with all her money. We amuse her and make people like 
her house, and she can’t spare us. She is useful to us and 
gives us. pleasure, and we’re useful to her and give her plea- 
sure. We are square. I do not afflict myself.” 

“ I do not ask you to afflict yourself, but I cannot face such 
things as those. I do not believe I am more easily deceived 
than you, but I am willing to try not to see what makes 
me despise myself and other people.” 

“ No ; I really believe you are not a simpleton, Christine, 
though you have much the air of being one. Sometimes I 
think you are a hypocrite, which is rather better on the whole, 
though not quite what I should like to see my daughter, if I 
had one, as Mrs. Sherman would say. What a blessed Provi- 
dence that she hasn’t one ! I think she has a mind to adopt 
you, Christine ; she found I was too many for her the second 
time she saw me, but she praises you ad nauseam. Oh, to hear 
her talk to Colonel Steele about you. The old intriguer. 

I believe she thinks it’s next best to having a lover herself, 
to secure one for somebody she has in tow. The ruling 
passion is strong yet. And the Colonel, I firmly think, be- 
lieves he is certain of you, and your nice little property. 


A DANGER AVERTED. 


157 


Christine, don’t forget that, if you please. Yon are very 
pretty and sweet, and if I wore a man' I think I should lie 
tangled in that auburn hair of yours. I do nat know any 
eyes that would please me half as well, but I’ re heard, men 
liked pretty fortunes as well as pretty faces. And when they 
come together ! Oh happy Colonel Steele ! lie thinks hia 
cup of happiness is full. He is coming to the Hill on Satur- 
day, and you are to be invited there to stay over Sunday. 
See if you are not. I heard the whole arrangement when 
he went away. Mrs. Sherman thinks I am such a fool ; she 
flatters me about him and pretends she thinks he likes me. 
Well, I believe he does, only not quite as well as he does 
you. He might, perhaps, if I had eighty thousand dollars. 
But I haven’t, dear. I have got to marry it, instead of its 
marrying me. So you see it’s a question of trade any way ; you 
are to be bought or you are to buy. Oh, pretty, pleasant^ 
happy barter ! For my part, Christine, I am disillusionized 
I think that a woman’s life is horridly flat, degrading.” 

“ I think that you are out of humor,” said Christine, 
simply. 

Madeline gave an impatient toss to the branch of honey- 
suckle that she was holding in her hand ; it fell out on the 
dark grass-plot below the window, and then Madeline leaned 
forward and looked after it. 

“Yes, I believe I am,” she said, with a half sigh. “I ought 
to believe it, for I am told so every hour at home by some 
one. There is a horrid picture of a shrew in an old spell- 
ing-book of Raymond’s. It would not surprise me in the least 
if I grew to look exactly like it. I feel the likeness creep- 
ing into my face every day. I went to the glass only this 
morning to see how far it had gone.” Christine laughed a 
little. “ I want to ask you something,” Madeline said, turn- 
ing to her abruptly. “Don’t you think a woman is a fool 
who submits herself and her fancies to the direction of a man 


158 


A DANGER AVERTED. 


who is not yet her lover? He has no right to say what she 
shall do and what she shall not. It is no concern of his 
whether she dances or sits still, whether she wears pretty 
clothes or makes herself a fright. And has she not a right 
to resent it, if he shows by his manner disapproval and re- 
sentment ?” 

“Why, I cannot tell exactly,” said Christine. “ If she cares 
for him she will try to please him, and if he cares for her, he 
will expect it of her.” 

“ But it is presuming in him to expect anything of her till 
he declares himself her suitor,” said Madeline, with hauteur. 

“But I was imagining that she loved him,” said the other, 
“ and then she could not help trying to suit his fancy ; she 
would naturally give up what he did not like, without thinking 
anything at all about it.” 

“Oh, you tiresome, tiresome innocent!” cried Madeline, with 
impatience. “ What a wife you’ll make I Dear limp, abject 
creature ! Happy Colonel ! It is a shame only one man can 
marry you ; you are so exactly the ideal wife, you could consti- 
tute the happiness of three or four. There comes Dr. Cather- 
wood. I mean to ask him if he does not think you the perfect 
woman nobly planned. Dr. Catherwood 1” 

Dr. Catherwood was passing through the hall ; he did not 
look into the parlor, and it is quite possible that he did not 
mean to do it ; but Madeline’s gay voice obliged him to turn 
towards it, and he entered with his usual pleasant smile. 

Christine had only time to say, “I do not like this, Made- 
line,” in a tone quite the reverse of limp and abject, before Dr. 
Catherwood was seated beside them, and Madeline, roused, ani- 
mated, and coquettish, was repeating to him the questions that 
she threatened. Was not Christine the perfect woman nobly 
planned ? Was she not his, every man’s ideal wife? Could a 
mail desire anything more submissive, enduring, faithful, tender, 
and true? Was a wife to be thought of who had any will ? 


A DANGER AVERTED. 


159 


Was anything so lovely as a woman without prejudices — with- 
out temper — without enthusiasm — and wasn’t Colonel Steele 
the happiest of men ? 

Fortunately for all, Madeline asked so many questions that 
no one man could answer them at once, and Dr. Catherwood 
was cool enough to make a choice. 

“ About this Colonel Steele,” he said, with a smile, looking 
into Christine’s face, “ I have been meaning to ask something 
about him. It seems to me he comes very often to the Hill ; 
which of the two young ladies lays a claim to his devotion ?” 

“ Oh, Christine, saws doute. Christine is the happy victor, 
though she does not acknowledge openly the fact. As for me, 
I am not ashamed to acknowledge conquests when I make 
them ; I wear all my scalps ; I hope to have dozens at my belt ; 
but the ideal woman doesn’t; the ideal woman never wants 
but one.” 

“ Then, Miss Christine is not the ideal woman ; I know she 
has ambition; I know she is glad to think she has brought the 
young minister to her feet, as well as the military gentleman ; 
and if you knew all that I know. Miss Clybourne, you would 
feel sorry for the parson, if you do not feel sorry for the Colo- 
nel. One of them will be a very miserable man.” 

“ Oh, as to that,” cried Madeline, with a tinge of pique in 
her voice, which Dr. Catherwood was happy to observe, “ as to 
that, I do not believe it will be fatal in one case or the other. 
The Colonel is too old to take the disease in its severest form, 
and as to the clergyman, I think it will be very light ; he has 
had it once already, and any attack coming now would be 
merely sympathetic.” 

“ Thank you,” said Christine, a little angrily. 

“ The Colonel is a marrying man, they say,” went on Dr. 
Catherwood, gravely. 

“ Oh, yes,” said Madeline, tartly, “ that is well understood.” 

“It must be that that makes me like him so,” said Christine, 


160 


A DANGER AVERTED. 


getting up and going towards the table. “ He is so much 
pleasanter than Mr. Leslie and the striplings who come some- 
times to the Hill. Ann, you may bring the lamp in now.” 

There was something about Christine that was exasperating 
to Madeline’s saucy nature — a something that was growing, too, 
She evidently had had enough of the Steele question, and 
meant to table it. Dr. Catherwood had never seen her so much 
the woman as to-night. 

“Well,” cried Madeline, “that means I am to go, for I 
expressly asked that the lamp should not bo brought in till I 
went away. Dr. Catherwood, will you see if the maid is wait- 
ing for me ?” 

“ The maid is. Miss Clybourne, but do I not outrank her ? 
Let me take you home.” 

Christine watched them go away together ; then, going back 
into the parlor, turned down the lamp, and sat alone a long 
while in the darkness. 


A MOMENT OF TEMPTATION. 


IGl 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A MOMENT OF TEMPTATION. 

“ The star of the unconquered will, 

He rises in my breast, 

Serene, and resolute, and still. 

And calm, and self-possessed.” 

Longfellow, 

Then I may come at five ?” said Colonel Steele, rising and 
taking his stmw hat from among the books and flowers upon 
the table in the Parsonage parlor. 

It was Saturday, and the Colonel had come up in the morn- 
ing train ; but Mrs. Sherman had to communicate to him the 
tidings that Christine was not coming to spend Sunday at the 
Hill. She did not wish to leave her father, though Mrs. Sher- 
man feared that was merely an excuse, as the Rector now left 
his room and seemed as well as usual. 

“ She has taken alarm at something, she is such a shy crea- 
ture,” said Mrs. Sherman. “ But that does not discourage me ; 
it only shows me she has feeling and is not indifferent.” 

The Colonel bit his lip ; he was not inspired with the same 
confidence. He assented, however, to Mrs. Sherman’s plan 
for the afternoon, and went down to the Parsonage to tell Chris- 
tine they were coming for her to ride at five o’clock. 

“ Very well,” said Christine, for there was nothing else to say 
besides, she was extremely fond of riding, and never felt quite 
so happy as when on a horse’s back. She had no horse of her 
own ; Julian had fallen heir to her pony, and though the Rec- 
tor had several times spoken of looking out for a saddle-horse 


1C2 


A MOMENT OF TEMPTATION. 


for her, it never had been done, and one of the many favora 
that were in Mrs. Sherman’s gift was the use of a pretty bay, 
who trotted, and paced, and cantered a merveille^ and seemed 
by nature designed for a lady’s use. Madeline generally rode 
a black horse of the Judge’s, a wild, high-spirited animal no 
woman ever should have mounted. Mr. Leslie took his chance 
among the farm and carriage-horses, while Colonel Steele 
brought his own horse with him, as became a Colonel of caval- 
ry and a gentleman of expensive tastes and habits. 

“ Father,” said Christine, that afternoon, opening the study 
door a little way, “if Julian does not come in at six, will you 
remind Crescens to go for him ? He was only to stay two 
hours at the brook. I shall not be back till seven or eight, I 
fear. I am going to ride, you know.” 

“Ah, with whom, my dear?” said the Rector, pushing back 
his chair and holding out his hand. Christine came in, hold- 
ing up her habit, and tripping a little among its folds, as she 
went across the room. 

Dr. Catherwood was sitting by her father, and smiled her a 
pleasant welcome. She had not seen him since the evening of 
Wednesday, when he went home with Madeline. 

“With whom are you going?” repeated her father, looking 
affectionately and proudly at her as she stood beside his chair. 

“With Madeline and the gentleman from the Hill,” said 
Christine, coloring. “ I told you all about it at the dinner- 
table, father.” . 

“ Ah, yes, I forgot,” he returned ; “ but does not Mrs. Sher- 
man go with you ? I should like it better.” 

“ Oh, yes ; Mrs. Sherman goes in the carriage. I did not fancy 
you would have any aversion to my going, but if you have 

“ No, no, my child, I can trust yon. I am afraid you can guide 
yourself better than I can guide you. Good-bye.” lie sighed 
as she stooped to kiss him, and with a smile to Dr. Catherwood 
went out of the room. 


A MOMENT OF TEMPTATION. 


163 


“ Gather wood,” said the Rector, uneasily, after the door had 
closed, “ that child is a dreadful burden to me ; I do not know 
what to do for her.” 

Dr. Catherwood smiled. “Why do anything for her, my 
dear sir? You struck a mine of truth when you said she could 
guide herself. I never saw a woman, young or old, better’fittcd 
to sustain herself; she has wonderful strength, young as she is 
I know she is entirely to be trusted.” 

“Yes, thank God,” said the father, reverently; “she is true 
and pure. But the world is strong and cunning — strong and 
cruel ; and she is but a child. Catherwood,” and he turned hia 
eyes upon his comjDanion earnestly, “ I wish I could give her to 
a good man before I die. I am old ; time is going fast. Every 
year I feel, before the next comes round, she and the boy may 
be alone, without a relative, a friend on earth to look to. I 
have no ambition for her ; she has more money, poor child, 
than she needs. I want to give her to a true and honorable 
gentleman, one who will love her and satisfy her heart; who 
will protect her and shield the boy, and take my place towards 
them both — more than take my place, perhaps; a younger man 
would be better for them, would know better how to guard 
them. I am old and worn out. I long to go ; this only holds 
me back. Christine is a good child, Catherwood ; she would 
make any man that loves her happy. She surprises me every 
day with something fine and sensible ; her mind is growing 
fast. I do not know where a man would look to find a better 
wife ; she is so young she would take any one I chose for her, 
and love him I am sure. I do not ask anything for her but af 
fection and protection ; this world’s favors I do not seek for 
mine; I look only for a man upon whose honor and integrity 
I can rely ; a man, Catherwood, whose heart I have read, upon 
whose age and judgment I feel I can rely, and whose Hfe I know 
to have been pure.” 

There was a pause ; tho Rector looked earnestly and wist- 


164 


A MOMENT OF TEMPTATION’. 


full}’- into Ills companion’s face; there was no misinterpreting 
what was so simple-minded and unworldly ; the appeal came 
straight from the father’s troubled heart ; he trusted his friend 
to the utmost limit that one friend can trust another. 

Dr. Catherwood sat looking steadfastly before him, his eyes 
fixed upon the floor. Christine had been offered to him — 
Christine, with her youth, her loveliness, her wealth — in her 
fair, dawning womanhood, with her loyal and earnest affec- 
tion, with her true, untainted heart, of which he was perhaps 
already master. There was a future to cover and obliterate 
any hateful past; a future that, coming so late in the life of any 
man, might well astound him with its rich and luxuriant promise. 

There was a silence of many moments ; the Rector did not 
take his eyes from off his companion’s face, but he could read 
nothing on it. Its perfect repose and kindliness he could not 
fancy covered a black storm of rebellion and temptation ; and 
in his voice, when he raised his eyes and spoke, he did not de- 
tect the faintest tremble pf emotion. 

“I do not know,” he said, “ whether I -am quite right in say- 
ing what I do, since it is nothing but conjecture ; but I have 
always taken so much interest in your daughter, that I have 
observed the impression made upon her by those with whom 
she has been thrown ; and also the impression she has made 
upon the minds of the men whom she has met. She is univer- 
sally admired; but among her admirers there is one who per- 
haps promises as much as any you can hope to find. lie is a 
man of good intellect and acquirements, kind-hearted, I think, 
and well calculated to render happy any woman who was dis- 
posed to love him. Colonel Steele is not a personal friend of 
mine; he is a travelling acquaintance and an occasional compa- 
nion. I do not know a great deal of his life, but I should 
think it would bear scrutiny. He has lived before the world 
continually in a very open and well-conducted manner ; and if 
I understand him, is a man to whom a f&ther need not fear to 


A MOMENT OF TEMPTATION.. 


165 


trust a daughter, provided always lie was the daughter’s 
choice. I am certain you never would urge upon your child a 
marriage to which her heart was disinclined. I understand 
and honor your feelings, Dr. Upham, more than I can tell you, 
and 1 sincerely trust you may see the consummation of your 
best hopes for your daughter’s happiness. She is fast ripening 
into a w'omanhood of the noblest type ; and the man who has 
the happiness to win her love, and the right to ask her hand, 
may tnank Heaven for its generosity.” 

Dr. Upham sighed heavily as he rose, and paced up and 
down the room. “We seldom get our wishes, Catherwood,” 
he said; “but I am willing she should be happy in Heaven’s 
way, if I cannot see her happy in mine. Do you think 
she likes this man? I had hardly noticed him. I never 
dreamed ” 

“ I cannot say she likes him ; perhaps she hardly knows her- 
self as yet.’’ 

“ I must speak to her ; I must know about it,” he murmured, 
as he crossed the floor ; “ but, Catherwood,” he added, after a 
moment, stopping before him, “ I am afraid of the influence of 
my wishes on her. I cannot trust myself. I want her to 
choose for herself, since I do not know the man. You had bet- 
ter speak to her about it, find out how she feels, and tell me 
the result. Do not blame me ; I have had such a calamity ; I 
have such cause to dread this step. I cannot trust myself to 
speak. Find out this thing for me, and bring me word, my 
friend.” 

Dr. Catherwood was silent, and then made the promise that 
he asked, and went out in time to see Mrs. Sherman drive away 
from the door in her open carriage, with Mr. Brockhulst on 
the seat beside her, and Madeline, Christine, Mr. Leslie, and 
Colonel Steele riding on horseback in advance. 


166 


A EOUGH EXPERIENCE. 


CHAPTER XXiy. 

A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 

“ If you break your plaything yourself, dear, 

Don’t you cry for it all the same ? 

I don’t think it is such a comfort, 

One has only one’s self to blame.” 

A. PROCTon. 

The afternoon was not what Mrs. Sherman had put down 
in her programme ; it was bright and rather promising when 
they first started, but about three miles out of town, the horizon 
began to swell its pile of thunder-heads, small clouds scoured 
over the heavens, and the sun, though still shining, had an out- 
of-place, unnatural look, from contrast with the dark below. 

Mrs. Sherman began to be uneasy, and to ask Mr. Brockhulst 
and the coachman if they thought there would be a storm. 
The coachman thought it would blow over, and Mr. Brock- 
hulst could give no opinion. By-and-by the riding party 
slackened their pace and waited for the carriage to come up, 
and asked what was to be done. No one wanted to go home, 
but all felt a vague apprehension that that was just what should 
be done ; still the coachman said it would blow over, and Made- 
line said it had looked just so last week and had not rained, 
and Mr. Leslie was certain they could get back in time if it 
began to sprinkle; so it was concluded they should ride on 
another mile, and see how things looked at that time. 

They rode on another mile, and then stopped and held 
another council. The storm had not made any progress cer- 
tainly; the west was lowering, but the sun was shining; the 
clouds had not grown in size, and they had been looking at 


A BOUGH EXPERIENCE. 


167 


tbem so long they could not tell whether they had increased 
at all in blackness. When people start out on a party 
of pleasure, it takes an angel with a drawn sword in his hand 
to turn them back. The very horses, in this case, seemed to 
scorn the indecision of their riders, and to fret under the 
restraint of bit and bridle, as they paused in consultation ; par- 
ticularly Madeline’s black, whom she found it impossible to 
hold, and whose restive movements caused her to exclaim, 
rather impatiently : ■ 

“One thing or the other, good people; Guido and I are 
tired of indecision.” 

“ Let us go,” cried Colonel Steele, with animation ; “ we can 
find plenty of shelter if it should rain.” 

“ A storm among the mountains would be glorious,” said Mr. 
Leslie ; “ a thing to be remembered all one’s life.” 

“Well, anything for an adventure,” said Mrs. Sherman, 
yieldingly. 

“I trust we shall not be detained beyond eight o’clock,” re- 
marked the young minister, rather anxiously. 

“ It strikes me you are all unwise,” said Christine, as she fol 
lowed her companions. 

Their destination was an inn of some celebrity among trout- 
fishers and sportsmen, situated in a wild spot near the summit 
of the lowest of the group of mountains which rose gradually 

from among the hills surrounding . Mrs. Sherman had sent 

a servant up in the morning to order tea to be prepared for them, 
and it was proposed to leave there about nine o’clock, coming 
home by the light of the harvest moon, now at the full. 

Two members of the party were sailing under sealed orders 
— Mr. Brockhulst and Christine. • It was feared that the latter 
was too shy a fish to rise to any bait so palpable and strong as 
an excursion of such length and with Colonel Steele for her 
companion, and she was only asked indefinitely to join a riding 
party. Mr. Brockhulst, also, Mrs. Sherman knew, would never 


168 


A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 


be caught in such a worldly company at such an hour on the 
night of" Saturday ; so she used a little of the serpent’s wis- 
dom, and sending the cavalcade ahead, called herself at the cot- 
tage where he had his rooms, aud sent the servant up with a 
message to him — a message so worded that it conveyed to his 
mind the idea his benefactress was waiting for him at the door, 
to know if he would spend a half hour with her in the carriage, 
if he possibly could spare the time, to talk over something in 
connection with the parish, while she gave him a little airing 
and secured an uninterrupted conference. 

With a weary sigh he pushed aside his uncompleted sermon, 
closed half-a-dozen books of reference lying by him on the 
table, and prepared himself to obey the unwelcome summons. 
Reckless as he was in the use of himself, he had an impression 
that he was not wise in sitting up till two o’clock on Sunday 
morning to finish a sermon to be preached that day. There 
was four hours’ work on it yet, and if he went to drive with 
Mrs. Sherman it could not be touched till ten, for at seven 
came tea, at eight came a class of youths to be prepared for 
Confirmation, and at ten would come the resumption of the 
sermon — a sermon written at the request of his vestry, and pro- 
mised for that occasion. He had walked at least eight miles 
in the morning, visiting some distant parishioners, and had no 
need whatever of the air — in fact, needed rest much more — for 
Saturday was a terrible day with him, all the parish work of 
the week being crowded into it on account of the holiday he 
gave his class of boys. 

But Mrs. Sherman’s wishes could not be disregarded; no 
doubt ‘she had something of importance to say to him, and it 
showed a very unchastened ^irit to rebel so much against the 
interruption. 

He looked very pale and languid as he took his place beside 
her in the carriage, and his forced, patient smile really was very 
touching. 


A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 


169 


“You are working too hard, ray dear young friend,” said his 
benefactress, with a most interested air. “ Do not let me heai 
of any more eight-mile walks while you are so weak. Why 
did you not send to the Hill ? You know there is always a 
horse there for you. And this matter of the Confirmation 
Class three evenings in the week — I implore you to discontinue 
it. I shall take every pains to interrupt and interfere with it 
You need relaxation and amusement ; you are in my hands for 
this afternoon, and I shall see that you do not escape me.” 

Mr. Brockhulst looked alarmed, as well he might.^ 

As they drove up to the Parsonage, they caught sight of 
Madeline pacing her horse up and down under the trees, while 
Colonel Steele was opening the gate for Christine, who was, 
just coming out. Mr. Brockhulst changed color. 

“ Are you ready for your ride, mes amis? We will go on 
together. It will be very pleasant,” said Mrs. Sherman, art- 
lessly, and as if she thought the meeting quite a charming lit- 
tle coincidence. 

Madeline looked the embodiment of good style on horse- 
back ; she wore a black cloth habit and a high beaver hat ; 
her whole costume was as masculine, rigid, and modish as was 
possible. She looked extremely handsome, too, and her figure 
showed to the best advantage ; all women thought she had 
attained the happiest point, but the male eye turned with more 
admiration towards the pretty girlish figure of Christine. Her 
habit was navy blue cloth, and her hat a straw, bound with 
blue velvet to match, with a long drooping blue feather. 

Colonel Steele, as he put her on the horse and adjusted her 
small foot in the stirrup, wished he had Dr. Catherwood at ten 
paces, with a Colt’s revolver and a just cause of provocation. 

After the second council of war and the second resolution 
to proceed, they began the ascent of the mountain, and the 
equestrians got a good deal in advance of the carriage, which 
was an unsuitably heavy one for such a road. Mrs. Sherman 

8 


170 


A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 


tried to make herself very agreeable to her companion, who 
could not succeed in making himself anything but absent- 
minded and uneasy. Mrs. Sherman looked a good deal at the 
sky, and Mr. Brockhulst looked a good deal in a furtive man- 
ner at his watch. There was a growing conviction in the mind 
of the one that there was a storm coming up, and in that of the 
other that the Confirmation Class would go by the board that 
night. 

A half hour passed ; the ascent of the mountain was neces- 
sarily a very slow one ; the road was always a bad one, and 
two or three hard rains during the week had gullied and 
injured it very much. For a long distance the trees on either 
side were so thick the sky was scarcely to be seen, and the 
increasing darkness was to be accounted for by that circum- 
stance. But in about half an hour they emerged from the 
woods upon an open plateau, from whence they looked down 
upon the distant town and its surrounding hills, and out upon 
the thunder-clouded west. Above them, on the other side, 
rose precipitous and overhanging rocks; the air was hot and 
still, with an occasional shivering current of chill running 
through it. There was “ a going in the tops of the trees,” 
and then a hush ; a twitter of some frightened bird, and then 
a cowering down in silence. All nature seemed appalled and 
apprehensive, hanging on the breath of that fearful mass of 
tempest that lay black and sullen in the west. 

The clouds had swollen and grown almost over the whole 
heaven; the sun was quite obscured, but colored the clouds 
before it with a reddish lurid light that made them a feature 
of terror in the landscape. And at intervals there went 
through the black bank of cloud a swift, thin thread of flame, 
that seemed to leave them infinitely blacker and more dense. 

Mrs. Sherman with difficulty suppressed a scream as they 
came out of the cover of the gloomy woods upon this broad 
and threatening expanse of sky. A few rods before the’u 


A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 


171 


halted the riding-party, who had only reached the spot that 
moment, owing to a long delay occasioned by the turning 
of Christine’s saddle and the loss of Madeline’s whip. They 
all looked pretty grave, excepting Madeline, who called out 
laughingly to Mrs. Sherman that they had a prospect of 
the adventure she desired. Colonel Steele, riding quickly up 
to the carriage, asked the coachman how far to the inn i 
was, and whether there was any shelter by the way. Mrs 
Sherman was by this time in a very hysterical state, and was 
calling upon all her gods to get her safely out of this. The 
coachman, in rather a dazed state, was trying to remember 
how many miles it was to the inn, but could not. Only he 
was certain of this, they were more than half way up the 
mountain, and the only thing was to go straight ahead. 

“Then. drive on, at the best rate you can,” said Colonel 
Steele, with authority, springing from his horse to assist Mr. 
Brockhulst in putting up the top and fastening down the 
apron of the carriage. “The young ladies had better get in 
here.” 

“ No, indeed,” cried Madeline ; “ if we ride fast we can 
get to the inn half an hour before the carriage. I shall not 
dismount.” 

“ Then, Miss Upham, you must let me take you down. 
Mr. Brockhulst, will you ride Miss Upham’s horse and give 
up your place to her ?” 

“ No,” said Christine. 

“Christine, I command it,” cried Mrs. Sherman, in an ecstasy 
of excitement, and Colonel Steele waited for no further per- 
mission, but lifted her from the horse and put her in the carriage. 

Mr. Brockhulst, who fortunately was a very good horse- 
man, mounted the bay mare and rode forward, joined in a 
moment by Colonel Steele ; Madeline and Mr. Leslie leading 
the advance. The carriage soon was lost to sight. 

“I must keep back a little,” said Colonel Steele, looking 


172 


A EOUGH EXPERIENCE. 


down the road anxiously. “Mr. Brockhulst, you had better 
ride on, keeping an eye upon Miss Clybourne. She may 
need both you and Leslie before the ride is over. That black 
brute has the very devil in his eye to-day.” 

Mr. Brockhulst needed no further hint ; he was within two 
rods of the young horsewoman before Colonel Steele had fairlj 
turned his horse around. The road, now descending slightly 
through a rocky and damp ravine, was too narrow for him 
to ride beside her; but she turned her head and caught sight 
of his anxious face with a peculiar satisfaction. 

Presently the great, slow drops of rain began to patter 
down upon the leaves above them with a dull, deliberate 
regularity ; then a strong swaying of the branches suddenly 
commenced ; then came a sharp glaring blaze of lightning, 
and then a peal of thunder that burst with deafening echoes 
among the ledges overhead. Madeline was a girl of good 
spirit and most unusual courage, but she could not quite 
repress a little scream, and she raised her right hand to her 
eyes as if to rub out that horrid gleam. The little move- 
ment gave Guido the advantage; he took the bit between 
the teeth and made a plunge. 

“ Check him, check him. Miss Clybourne ! Don’t let him 
have his head,” cries Mr. Leslie, like a fool, for who was going 
to let him have his head if it could be helped ? 

Madeline uttered some impatient advice to him to keep 
quiet, and grasping the reins firmly, shook Guido’s stubborn 
head about until he came to terms — that is, until he consented 
to go up an opposing hill at a hand-gallop instead of on a mad 
run. It was only a temporary subjugation, though, she and her 
companion knew. Half her strength was gone before she was 
up the hill, and she saw with a sinking of the heart the rough 
precipitous way that succeeded it before the next winding of 
the road brought them again on the ascent. 

She was not frightened ; she knew perfectly well what she 


A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 


173 


was about; she coiijd have managed six wild horses at once if 
she h^id only had the strength. He would never master me 
if I were not a woman and so weak, she thought; and the 
vexations idea lent her another spasm of power, and she fairly 
brought him under for the moment. The road was too narrow 
for the three to go abreast; so as Madeline slackened up, Mr 
Leslie trotted briskly along beside her, and Mr. Brockhulst 
fell into place behind them, holding the amiable bay in his 
hand and never taking his eyes off Madeline. 

The rain was now falling fast ; the blackness was less intense, 
but the rain was blinding, a?id the wind, now roaring loudly in 
the trees, made all the horses restless and prone to start, while the 
uncertainty of their footing increased every moment. Before 
they had gone fifty rods further, the road was one brovad stream ; 
a thousand little rills were pouring into it from the rocks above; 
there seemed a deluge ; the air was full of the sound of water. 

The path grew rougher and wilder ; it gave Madeline a mo- 
mentary sense of giddiness as she caught a glimpse, by aid of 
the flashes that were now dancing round them thicker and 
faster, of the road they were approaching, winding around the 
mountain on the edge of a precipice that seemed to go down, 
down, without a curve, to the forest-tops below them. This 
crazy road, over which it was rather an adventure to ride at 
any time, was as much out of repair as it is often the lot of a 
road to be. There were not half-a-dozen travellers a day passing 
over it, and they rarely were equestrians ; generally sportsmen 
with gun and bag or creel and pole, and the occasional lumber- 
ing cart and sure-footed beast sent down from the little inn for 
the few supplies the two families needed who lived upon the 
mountain. There were rough bridges, occasionally mended by 
a log, oftener left gaping from freshet-time to freshet-time, and 
there were gullies down the mountain side that sometimes 
thook the nerves of even the sure-footed nag who had never 
been used to any better or smoother manner of highway. Mrs, 


174 


A BOUGH EXPERIENCE. 


Sherman, in her tnirst for an adventure, had taken the word of 
some enthusiastic fisherman who liad gone up on foot, and wai 
entirely unprepared for what she found herself surrounded by, 
and Colonel Steele and Mr. Brockhulst were perfectly aghast. 
Mr. Leslie, of course, was frightened ; but it did not take much 
to frighten him. 

Madeline held her lips very tightly pressed together, and did 
not open them when her companion made some feeble and 
spasmodic attempts to make her speak. She was thinking : 
“Will my head reel when I reach that giddy bit of road? 
Have I the strength and nerve to last me till we pass it, or are 
they to fail me at that moment? Has the time come?” 

They were rapidly approaching the dreaded place; Madeline 
held herself firm and erect upon her horse ; she grasped the 
bridle till her fingers felt like stone. Mr. Brockhulst, with a 
face as pale as ashes, rode close behind her and never took his 
eyes away from her ; Mr. Leslie kept his place with difficulty 
beside her, for Guido’s moderation was his horse’s extreme of 
speed. 

Just as they neared the spot, only separated from it by a 
rude, uncertain bridge, and just as Madeline was feeling she 
would come out victorious, there flamed across the heaven such 
a piercing, blinding light, and such a frightful crash of thunder 
burst over their very heads, shattering and shivering the air, 
and stunning the senses like a blow, that all three horses sprang 
wildly forward ; Guido cleared the bridge at a bound, made a 
misstep, regained his footing, and sped wildly on, while Mr. 
Leslie’s steed stumbled and fell utterly, a helpless heap of horse- 
flesh. 

Alas ! for Madeline. If her fingers had been of bronze 
laced in and out of those iron strips of reins, if her strength 
had been “the strength of ten,” it would have availed but lit- 
tle. To the viciousness and stubbornness of the brute’s nature 
was added sudden and frantic terror ; he was blinded by his 


A KOUGH EXPEKIENCE. 


175 


/right and fury. The whole violence of the storm seemed 
hurled upon them at this point, exposed and open, round which 
the wind swept fiercely, and against which the rain fell in strong 
and heavy sheets. The horse saw nothing, regarded nothing ; 
he was running madly upon destruction. 

lie flew forward, straight as an arrow shot from a steel cross- 
how’ ; the road, ten rods further on, took a sharp curve round 
the mountain side. Below lay the rocky precipice, the gloomy 
gorge — the tree-tops far, far down below. 

Madeline still sat firm, erect, holding those binding strips 
of iron in her powerless hands, seeing little more than the 
blinded horse beneath her saw — feeling cold, and dumb, and 
stolid. “ One minute more,” she was saying to herself ; “ one 
minute more — how will it feel — how long will it last — how 
shall I know ” 

Over and over the words ran through her mind ; she knew 
the truth, the awful danger, but the knowledge of it had come 
too suddenly, too vividly, and had stunned her. 

All this Mr. Brockhulst saw with feelings that no words can 
convey. There was but one thing to be done, one move possi- 
ble to save this fearful game — to reach the outer edge of the 
precipice first; to get the outside track and press Guido in ; to 
turn him, if only a hair’s breadth inw’ard ; to break, in even a 
faint degree, his headlong course; and, if possible, to keep 
beside him till the danger passed. It seemed an even throw ; 
perhaps Flite was not steady enough to do the work required 
of her ; perhaps nothing could turn and startle Guido now. 
But there was a chance. He cheered his wi'Jing, obedient 
horse to one strong effort ; bounded to her side — there was still 
room for him ; one instant more, he was a hair’s breadth in 
advance ; another, Flite’s hoof had struck the precipice — she 
shuddered, faltered, and regained her footing. Guido rushed 
by her, struck against her, sprang violently back, inward from 
the edge, and then dashed on. 


176 


A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 


But tlie work was done. Still the young rider sat erect and 
firm, and beside her, now white and trembling and unnerved, 
her companion rode. The road beyond rose straight before 
them up the mountain side, and along it flew the two horses, 
across tumb'.ing streams, deep gullies, broken bridges, through 
the storm and darkness; on, on, as people ride in dreams of 
terror. 

At last there came a widening of the road, an open field 
some fences, and through the lulling storm presently they heard 
the bark of dogs, the tinkle of cow-bells, and by-and-by a 
human voice. And the road brought up abruptly at the very 
door of a low, rough, wooden building which stood directly 
across it, from the windows of which a light was shining, and 
on the piazza of which three or four men sat smoking, who 
sprang up in alarm at the wild apparition. Guido found insur- 
mountable objections presenting to his further progress, and 
stopped short with a start and shudder. One man sprang to 
his bridle, another hastened to dismount Madeline. 

But her fingers were so laced in and out of the reins she 
hardly could unwind them ; her gloves were torn in strips and 
stained with blood, the only evidence of the good fight she had 
made. 

“ You have had a hard ride of it,” said the man, disentan- 
gling her wet habit from the pommel and lifting her to the 
ground. She caught at a post of the little piazza to keep her- 
self from falling, overcome by a sudden sense of giddiness, but 
recovered herself instantly, answered carelessly, and walked 
into the house. 

There was a perfect tempest of agitation in her heart, but she 
made a stubborn resolution to keep it all down out of sight. 
She had seen Mr. Brockhulst come up a minute after her and 
dismount, and now she had a perverse fear that he would come 
to her and say something about the awful danger they had 
passed through, and the undeserved mercy that had kept them 


A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 


117 


still in life. She would do anything rather than let him say 
that; she shuddered to think of what had passed; she was 
frightened at her own wickedness, but she found herself more 
impatient than penitent, and she felt that any one who advised 
her to be grateful would do it at his peril. She was blaming 
herself unnecessarily, her nerves were so shaken, her brain so 
overwrought, she would have been made of iron if she had 
retained control of them. Some women would have cried and 
fainted; others would have been frozen into apathy and silence. 
But all Madeline’s strong nature was thrilling, and clanging, 
and jarring with the intensity of its reaction, and she felt like 
defying whatever came across her path. 

The women of the house collected about her with many 
questions, condolences, and offers of assistance. 

Yes, they had been caught in a terrible storm. 

No, she did not want anything till the rest of the party came. 

Yes, they might dry her boots if they pleased. 

No, she did not care to go to the fire. 

She would be much obliged if she could be left quietly 
alone. 

So the women went away, considerably in awe of the grand 
young lady who preferred sitting alone there in her dripping 
habit, to coming into the kitchen and being warmed and dried. 

By-and-by Mr. Brockhulst came in looking very pale, and 
found her walking restlessly about the room, snapping her riding- 
whip tbrough her fingers. She turned abruptly as he entered, 
and looking at him over her shoulder said, with a laugh : 

“ I told them we should get here first.” 

Mr. Brockhulst did not answer, but simply walked across the 
room and stood looking from the window down the road, grow- 
ing dimmer every moment with the passing storm and coming 
light. Presently he said, turning : 

“ You would do well. Miss Clybourne, to go to the fire and 
have your clothes dried, I should think.” 

8 * 


178 


A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 


“I’d rather wait till the others come,” she said, carelessly. 
“ All the damage is done to my habit that can be done. And 
my poor hat, that I fondly hoped to look so fine in at the 
Park this autumn ! Well, it’s a lesson to me not to wear my 
silver-mounted harness when I go on such crazy country expe- 
ditions. I wonder how Christine and her ‘ navy blue’ are com- 
ing out of the adventure ?” 

At this moment the landlord, a good-natured, thick-set, 
sharp-witted countryman, presented himself at the door, and 
with a hand on each post, stood looking in in silence for a 
while ; then nodded his head and said : 

“ Young woman, as far as I’m capable of judging, you’ve had 
a mighty risky ride. I wouldn’t have given half a dollar for 
your chances coming round the ledge on that awful wild black 
brute. If he was my horse, I’d knock him in the head. I 
wouldn’t have a devil such as that around my place. And I 
look upon your getting here alive as one of the wonders folks 
say is never going to cease.” 

Madeline laughed carelessly and said it was rather a surprise 
to herself, but received all the man’s congratulations in such a 
nonchalant fashion, that he presently shrugged his shoulders 
and took himself away. 

There was another silence, during which Madeline seated her- 
self at a little melodeon in one corner of the room and began 
to hammer out of its reluctant keys a gay and familiar tune. 
Her companion, rising and going to the door, stopped with his 
hand upon the latch. 

“You will not consent to change your dress or go in to the 
fire?” he said, as she paused for a moment. 

“Oh, no,” she returned. “I am quite comfortable. I’ll 
amuse myself till the others come with playing on this wheezy 
little melodeon, or looking at the works of art about the room. 
Have you noticed this one right above me ? — ‘Daniel in the 
Lion’s Den.’ Poor Daniel ! I wonder if the people postered 


A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 


179 


him as much about his miraculous deliverance as they do me? 
and whether he felt as cross as I do !” 

When Madeline was alone, she closed the melodeon impa- 
tiently, and did not look again at Daniel, but spent a very 
miserable and solitary half hour, till she heard the sound of 
wheels and the voice of Colonel Steele as he hurried up in 
advance of the carriage. ~ 

“Brockhulst, is that you? All safe? Thank H6aven ! 
From Leslie’s story I was prepared for anything.” 

lie rode back to the carriage to give the welcome news, and 
presently the carriage itself was at the door, and Mrs. Sherman 
was being lifted out of it, a perfect wreck of the style and 
stateliness that had stepped into it three hours before. Her ' 
modish French bonnet seemed to have lost all self-respect, and 
was a miserable spectacle — flimsy, drooping, shapeless. Her 
flounces were damp and muddy, the shawls wrapped around 
her by her companions had a very ludicrous expression, and her 
hair was entirely out of curl. Madeline met her at the door 
of the little parlor with a laugh. 

“ How do you like your adventure so far, Mrs. Sherman ?” 
she cried, while Mrs. Sherman staggered to a chair and only 
answered by a groan. 

By this time the others had all reached the parlor door, and 
Christine, putting her arm round Madeline, whispered : “ I am 
so thankful you are safe.” 

Madeline released herself and exclaimed derisively: “Spare 
me a scene, my love, if you are not anxious for one ! I think 
I had a better ride than you, though the landlord does say 
(biido is a devil. We had better not let the Judge hear that 
He would never let me take him out again.” 

“ I should think not,” muttered Colonel Steele, below hia 
breath, while aloud he went on to pay Madeline some compli- 
ments upon her horsemanship, in which Mr. Leslie joined as 
well as his injured condition would permit, and in a few mo- 


180 


A EOUGH EXPERIENCE. 


ments all, even to Mrs. Sherman, cheered by the sight of a 
wood-fire built up quickly on the hearth, and a comfortable- 
looking supper in the adjoining room, were laughing and chat- 
ting merrily about Madeline’s adventure as if, within the hour, 
she had not stood upon the brink of a destruction as appalling 
as could be pictured to the imagination. 

The young clergyman, unable so quickly to dispel the awful 
images that had stamped themselves upon his mind, went from 
the room and out into the dark and chilly night, where the tem- 
pest was wailing itself to sleep, and the tempest-wrung forests 
were shivering still with the recollection of its fury. It seemed 
a profanity to him to rush from the presence of such danger 
int® so heartless and mocking a gaiety. He felt the distance 
between him and Madeline growing greater every moment. 
Her self-will and worldliness alarmed him, her levity chilled his 
love. He must conquer all feeling for her, or be lost to the 
life to which he was devoted. 

And while Madeline, with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes, 
stood in the circle round the blazing fire, and roused them all 
to merry peals of laughter by her wit, outside, under the dark 
and cloudy sky, there was a resolution taken that changed the 
color of all her future life. 


EAVESDROPriNG. 


181 


CHAPTER XXV. 

EAVESDROPPING. 

“ Sorrow comes to all ; 

Our life is checked with shadows manifold ; 

But woman has this more — she may not call 
Her sorrow by its name.” 

Jkan Ikgelow 

The little inn contained three sleeping-rooms for the accom- 
modation of that infinitesimal portion of the travelling public 
who ever came upon its hospitality. Two were on the ground- 
floor, one adjoining the dining-room, or what in winter did 
duty for a kitchen ; the other, a very small one, opening out of 
the little parlor. To this ’last Christine was consigned, Made- 
line sharing Mrs. Sherman’s, separated from it by the narrow 
entry. A small, dark chamber overhead was^the fate of Mr. 
Leslie and the clergyman, while Colonel Steele remained in 
possession of the parlor and a blanket to lie down on by the 
fire. 

Christine’s room was very primitive; its furniture a rag 
carpet, a wooden chair, and a washstand, a little mirror in a 
black frame, and a very narrow bed ; the ceiling was so very 
low and the window was so very tiny, that it would have seemed 
almost impossible, if the restless wind outside had not pressed 
in so strongly, to have drawn more than half-a-dozen breaths 
in it. 

She put out the dim little candle and then lay down, very 
much in earnest about going to sleep. But sleep being one of 
the few things not attainable by exertion of the will, she lay a 


182 


fcAfESl POPPING. 


long while most perfectly awa\e, tired, and excited, and rest- 
less. She heard the wind outside and the occasional barking 
of a dog, and the swaying of some branches against the roof 
above. Then the window rattled violently in its clumsy case- 
ment, and the paper-shade before it shook and flapped, and 
Christine thought she must get up and go and call Madeline to 
come and stay with her, and then she was very much ashamed 
of herself for having such a thought, being a self-controlled 
and well regulated young woman, and having had to smother 
midnight terrors without material assistance all her life. Poor 
little girl ! she had had no mother’s side to creep to when the 
storm was against the w’all, and “ the blast of the terrible 
ones” roared without; she had learned to lie alone and silent 
through whole w’akeful nights, hardly breathing without pain, 
hardly moving without fear. 

This, therefore, was no new experience to her; and one alle- 
viating circumstance in the night’s discomfort, was the gleam of 
the fire-light under the parlor door, and the occasional movement 
in the room adjoining that proved its occupant not yet asleep. 
The party had gone to their rooms early — that is, at about ten 
o’clock. It was probably between half-past eleven and twelve 
that Christine raised herself on her elbow and listened breath- 
lessly to a loud barking of all the dogs about the house, a 
motley-voiced crew. Then a sound of talking outside, and the 
entrance of some one into the narrow hall. Some wild and 
desperate character, no doubt ; Christine thought it probable he 
would cut all their throats before morning, but did not see that 
she could do anything but listen. A man with the voice and 
step of the landlord opened the parlor door a little w'ay, and 
began to speak In a deprecating and conciliatory manner to 
Colonel Steele, who, roused suddenly, had asked rather sternly 
who was there. 

The landlord was on the outside, and spoke in rather a thick, 
low voice, and Christine could not catch all he said ; but she 


E AVES DKOPPING. 


183 


put together the scraps of his communication and the replies of 
Colonel Steele, and assured herself that a belated traveller had 
arrived, for whom there was no possible accommodation but ano- 
ther blanket on the parlor floor. The lofts above were all full, 
there were three or four more at present lying round the kitchen 
fire, the ladies had the only two decent rooms he had, and he did 
not see how he was going to manage it, if the Colonel would 
not allow the gentleman to share the parlor with him. He 
could answer for the gentleman’s being quiet and civil, and 
giving him no trouble ; he really was very sorry, but he did not 
see what else could be done. 

The Colonel swore a little, as became him, and protested that 
the thing was utterly impossible ; but finally yielded, as he had 
meant to from the first, and as the landlord and the traveller 
outside had known he meant to do. It is a little form of pro- 
test that is perfectly understood among travellers, and after it 
was gone through with, the landlord ushered the guest into the 
room, expressed his thanks to Colonel Steele, and closed the 
door and went away. 

Christine felt a chill of alarm ; the partition between them 
was so thm, the door so slight and poorly fastened, she really 
felt as if she must go and speak to Madeline ; she would rather 
lie on the floor in their room than stay here. 

At that moment she caught the sound of a familiar voice, an 
exclamation of astonishment, and a short laugh of amuse- 
ment : 

“ Steele, upon ray soul !” 

“ Catherwood, of all men in the world !” 

“ What are you doing here ?” 

“ Where under heavens did you come from ?” 

Christine could hardly repress a little laugh of pleasure at 
that moment ; she felt so reassured and comfortable, in fact per- 
fectly at home and perfectly protected ; she did not mind the 
howling •)f the wind outside, nor the gusty rattling of the window ; 


184 


EAVESDEOPPING. 


she felt safe, now that she knew Dr. Catherwood was under the 
same roof with them. She smoothed out her pillow, and with her 
pretty hand under her cheek, lay down with a happy smile upon 
her lips. But they went on talking, and she could not help hear* 
ing what they said. 

“ In the first place,” said the Colonel, “ how came you hero 
on this wild night at this late hour?” 

“Never be surprised at meeting a country physician any 
where at any time of night,” returned the new-comer’s voice, 
“ I was sent for this afternoon to see a very ill child at the log- 
house just beyond, but not returning home for some hours, did 
not got the message till the storm was quite inaugurated. I took 
the brunt of it, I assure you, coming up the mountain ; and 
having spent two hours with the boy, who has had a hard fight 
for life, poor lad, and being thoroughly drenched, and tired, and 
sleepy, I shall make no apology for accepting your urgent hospi 
tality.” 

“ Well, I’m sorry, Catherwood, I kept you outside so long; 
really I did not dream I was to have the honor.” 

“ That’s all understood. Now, if you please, how came you 
here, and what separated you from the gay party with whom I 
saw you last ?” 

“ The separation has not been a very long one ; they are all 
bestowed somewhere in this spacious inn — where, I shudder but 
to think ; Mrs. Sherman never folded her wings so close before, 
I’m bound.” 

“ You do not tell me,” said his companion, in a tone of great 
surprise, “ that Mrs. Sherman left at five o’clock this after- 

noon with the intention of coming to this place ?” 

“ I tell you just that thing,” returned the Colonel ; “ and I 
need not assure you, after this date,»I withdraw ; I never servo 
under her again. What do you suppose was the crazy plan 
To come up here for supper, and go back by moonlight ! By 
moonlight, my good sir ; through those forests where moonlight 


EAVESDKOPPING. 


185 


never yet found itself by any chance, and over those insane 
bridges that are not safe at midday. The woman hasn’t the 
judgment of a yearling heifer. She has been in a state of 
hysterics ever since the storm came on, and well she may be, 
for 1 never thought those two girls would get up here alive.” 

“ They are safe, you said ?” Dr. Catherwood interrupted 
quickly. 

“ Safe ? Yes, I suppose so ; but no thanks to her.” 

“Christine rode the bay?” he went on, with an ill-concealed 
interest, as his companion paused! 

“Yes, and Miss Clybourne that devil of a Guido. What 
Mrs. Sherman was thinking of when she allowed her to ride 
that brute, I cannot tell.” 

“But Chris , Miss Dpham, had no trouble with the bay ?” 

“ No, none. I put her in the carriage when the storm began, 
and made Brockhulst ride her horse. Leslie was thrown at a 
very early date, and when we overhauled him, limping along, 
with his great booby of a horse by the bridle, he gave us a most 
dismal story. The last he saw of Miss Clybourne, Guido was 
on a run, making straight for a precipice, and the bay had lost 
his footing on the brink of it, with Brockhulst on his back. 
This made it cheerful for the two ladies in the carriage ; but 1 
always make allowance for a story when it comes from Leslie, 
and after tracking them safely beyond the gully, as they call the 
precipice, I managed to keep them tolerably quiet till we got 
up to the house. Miss Upham, that is ; Mrs. Sherman acted like 
a fool ; and if it had not been for the younger one’s good sense, 
I don’t know what would have become of us. What with 
keeping a lookout for Brockhulst and his companion, whom I 
thought we might come upon at any moment, in I don’t know 
what condition, and finding the road for that dolt of a coach- 
man, and making Leslie hold his tongue, and quieting my own 
horse, who was ready to jump out of his skin at every flash of 
lightning, and keeping Miss Upham’s spirits up, and Mrs. Sher- 


186 


EAVESDROPPING. 


man’s hysterics down, Catlierwood, depend upon it, I had my 
hands full.” 

“ I can well understand you had,” said his companion ; “ Miss 
Olybourne must have been in dreadful danger.” 

“ It’s enough to make one shudder to think what an escape 
it was ! Brockhulst, as far as I can understand, has done some- 
thing to be proud of, in turning Guido in and getting the out- 
side track himself, just as they were rounding the curve there 
above the gully. I don’t know twenty men who would have 
had the nerve and seen the moment when to do it. If it hadn’t 
been for that, by Jove, that girl would have been in eternity in 
a minute and a half. The sky was as black as ink, except for 
the occasional lightning, and Guido was on as mad a run as a 
horse ever tried. When I saw the tracks about the edge of 
the bank (one horse had been actually over and had struggled 
up), I was afraid to trust myself to look below ; I waited for 
the next flash of lightning before I saw the tracks ahead, and 
knew that they had gone safely past it. But this girl has 
spirit ; she never lost her presence of mind, and the men say 
here, she came in as straight and firm in her seat as if she had 
beefi trotting round the Park on a fine afternoon.” 

“ She is an unusually strong character,” said the other, in a 
lighter tone. “How is* it, my dear Colonel, is Mrs. Sherman 
making up a match between her protege and you ?” 

“ No,” said the Colonel, shortly. “I admire Miss Clybourne, 
but I have never desired to marry her; nor supposed I could 
do so, if I did desire it.” 

lie paused a moment, and then went on rather abruptly: 

“Catlierwood, I’ve sometimes thought you and I were of the 
same mind about the same woman. If that is so, I think we 
had better have a talk about it, and settle which has the best 
chance. I do not wish, to waste my time.” 

Every word of this Christine distinctly heard ; she could not 
help hearing ; till this sudden moment she had not tried not to 


EAVESDKOrriNG. 


187 


hear, for there seemed nothing but what she might as well hear 
as not. Now, while she lifted herself on her elbow in amaze- 
ment and doubt what she ought to do, the rest came, and she 
listened ; there are not many women who would, for those first 
startled moments, have done otherwise. 

Dr. Catherwood was silent, and then said, raising his head 
and turning it towards the speaker, which brought his words 
only the more distinctly to Christine : “ You have opened the 
way to a subject on which I am glad to speak to you. You 
are mistaken in one thing ; I shall not interfere with you. Yon 
should have known that from what passed between us on the 
first night of our meeting at the Hill.” 

“ On the contrary,” said the other, stiflly, “ I only interpreted 
your desire for secresy as additional proof of what I feared ; and 
excuse me, but I do not see any reason yet to change my 
mind.” 

“We will not enter into that at present,” said the other; “a 
man’s past life is not always the pleasantest thing to talk 
about ; only I will thank you now for observing the silence 1 
requested. I have for some time seen where your fancy had 
alighted. I cannot tell whether Christine returns your inter- 
est; that is for you to discover for yourself. But I can tell 
you one thing that you may be glad to know : her father, 
who has not long to live, ilesires nothing so much as to see 
his daughter safely married. He will not stand at wealth ; 
Christine has that; he only asks for an honorable and honest 
man, who will be a kind protector to her after he is gone. 
With him my influence is great. I can further your suit or 
ruin it. Tell me now, before the old man speaks to me about 
you, can you make this girl happy if you win her love? You 
now what I mean, Steele ; would she have your heart and 
your whole life? Men that have wandered round the world as 
we have, know there are many ways of spending away one’s 
soul, and bringing to a wife only the empty mockery of a heart— 


188 


EAVESDllOPPING. 


only the dregs of an impure and ill-spent life. I have no right 
to question you, I know, only as might makes right ; and I tell 
you, candidly, I can spoil your cause with Dr. Upham. But 
we have met cordially for many years ; we might have been 
friends, perhaps, if our meetings had been more frequent. I 
wish you well ; I am willing to do all t can to promote your 
honorable purposes ; but then, you must remember, this young 
girl’s happiness is very dear to me. Her father has shown him- 
self my friend ; for her, herself, I have a warm affection ; at 
their house I have always met the kindest welcome. Let all 
this he ray excuse for asking you what you would otherwise do 
well to resent indignantly. What have you to g\ve Christina 
Upham in exchange for her affection, if you win it?” 

There was a moment’s pause, and then the other answered : 
“An affection as warm and sincere as any man at any age can 
have to offer ; and a life that can be handled on all sides, and 
that calls for no secresy in any of its episodes.” 

“That is more than I can say, you think,” said Dr. Cathor- 
wood, with a short, sarcastic laugh. “ Well, sir, you are right; 
I cannot say it ; but I do not hold myself any worse man that I 
cannot. I see from your tone you do not like what I have said. 
Well, wait, my friend, till you are in my position, and then say 
whether I have done right or not. I have had to do with a 
most trusting and amiable old mai:^ and he has asked me to ad- 
vise him of his daughter’s suitors. lie has put more into my 
hands than I care to hold ; but I am the friend of the house, and 
I will not betray the trust. No man shall approach that child 
who is not as worthy of her as she is worthy of a man’s whole 
love, whole life, and service. I do well to prepare you, Steele 
you see. I do not open the guns till I have sent a summons.” 

Up to this moment Christine had listened hungrily, absorb 
edly, without a scruple — she drank in every syllable without 
breathing, actually without the exercise of thought — the full 
force of all only came in the pause after these last words ; then 


EAVESDROrPING. 


189 


she pressed her hands before her face, and burying it deeply in 
the pillow, felt she was undone. Besides what she had heard, 
was the way of having heard it; the shame of having stolen in 
upon the confidence of these two men ; possessed herself of what 
either of them would have died rather than have had her hear. 
Her father’s appeal to Dr. Catherwood ; Dr. Catherwood’s 
anxiety to provide for her ; his cool indifference as to what 
might be her own desires ; his assertion that the father had not 
long to live ; the dark allusion to something in his history that 
could not be revealed — all these were revelations that shook 
the very earth beneath her. 

In whom was she to believe ; what was she to lean upon ; 
where to looik for counsel now ? She had no one to look to, no 
friend anywhere. He whom she had so trusted, who had so 
understood and "cared for her, to talk so coolly, to approve so 
readily of her marriage with a man whom he knew so slightly, 
towards whom he had no friendship, and for whom he must 
have known she felt nothing but dislike. What did it all mean ? 
AVhy had he changed so ? What had she done to estrange him 
from her ? She remembered now fully all the change. Surely 
he could not have done this three weeks ago. He had been 
different with her since that night of Harry’s accident — that 
morning, rather, after it, when she had talked with him of He- 
lena. But no ; it was her own heart that had deceived her ; 
friendship did not mean to him what it meant to her, for ho 
talked with this man about it, and while bargaining her away 
to him, said he had a warm affection for her, and that her 
happiness was dear to him. 

The ache, the agony of that long night ! She did not quit 
know what the agony was; she thought the ache meant only 
disappomied friendship. She lay still, trying not to hear the 
low words of the talkers in the room adjoining, turning her eyes 
away from the gleam of fire-light that came from under the 
dooi, and trembling at the sound of the crackling wood that 


190 


EAVESDROPPI XG. 


from time to tim'e one of them piled upon the fire. Would 
they never let the fire go out ; would their low voices never 
cease! She must not hear; she would not even think of what 
she had so wickedly become possessed ; but she should go mad 
if this night did not soon end. 

At last it ended, to the talkers in the other room at least ; 
the fire went out, the voices ceased ; the two men were per 
fectly silent, and were probably asleep. 

But the “fayre morrowe” came at length; fair to all eyes 
that had not wept themselves blind through the long night of 
pain. 


KU SERVICE AT ST. PHILIP’s. 


191 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

NO SERVICE AT ST. PHILIp’s. 

“ Ev’ry spendthrift to passion is debtor to thought.” 

Lucillb. 

That Sunday was a dark day in the calendar of every mem 
her of the party who spent the Saturday night preceding at 

the little shanty of an inn on the mountain. Dr. Cather- 

wood was up and away by daybreak, and Colonel Steele was 
looking after the horses at a very early hour, while the other 
two gentlemen, immured in a dark little chamber over the 
dining-room, close against the roof, did not receive the idea of 
daylight till their door was opened by the landlord at about 
eight o’clock. 

The truth was, poor Mr. Brockhulst had not found the 
night’s experience any pleasanter than Christine had, and 
towards morning had fallen into his first sleep — a miserable, 
harassing one, to be sure, but tenacious of its hold upon its 
victim, whom it had all night played fast and loose with. 
When the landlord spoke, he woke with a start, thought him- 
self for several minutes in the hold of a slave-ship, of which he 
had been dreaming ; then looked at his watch and remembered 
where he was and what the morning was, and almost wished 
it was the dream, and the slave-ship the reality. Half-past 
eight o’clock on Sunday morning, and he ten miles away from 
is post of duty ! The early service, the Sunday-school, the 
Confirmation class — all these were passed, duties neglected, 
sins for ever on record — to his shame ; but the morning service 
might still be saved. He might reach the church before half* 


192 


NO SERVICE AT ST. PHILIPPS. 


past ten, and spare himself the remorse that a failure to do so 
would entail upon him. With that thought in his mind, he 
had left the little room, before Mr. Leslie had fairly aroused 
himself in his dark corner and begun to prepare for the morn- 
ing meal. At the stable he met Colonel Steele, who shook his 
head. 

“ A gloomy prospect for getting down the mountain,” said 
the latter. “ Guido is hors du combat, as might have been 
expected. Flite has cut herself badly in one or two places on 
the rocks, and ought not to be out of the stable for a week at 
least ; one of the carriage-horses has had a bad attack, thcv 
tell me, in the night, and indeed he looks pretty much used 
up this morning, and Leslie’s clumsy beast can hardly hobble 
to his oats, owing to that pretty fall he had before he left you 
yesterday. I do not see anything for it but to put my horse, 
who is the only one in decent trim, before the carriage with the 
other, and send the ladies down, while we wait here till we are 
sent for.” 

“ It is of the last importance that I should be in by 

ten o’clock,” said the young clergyman, in a hurried manner. 
“ I will not wait for breakfast. I will walk on.” 

“Walk! My dear sir, I am a good walker myself ; but I 
do not flatter myself that I could get within three miles of 

before ten o’clock, or half-past, either. The state of the 

roads is terrible, you know, and the mud will make walking 
very serious business. But we can arrange it for you to go 
in the carriage, which I shall have got up at once, and the 
ladies will no doubt be ready to go the moment breakfast is 
completed. That is your only chance, and T think, if nothing 
occurs to detain you, you may be in at the hour you wish. 
You can direct the coachman to go at a good speed as soon as 
you get off the mountain.” 

Mr. Brockhulst had to yield, as his good sense told him 
Colonel Steele was right ; it was certainly not a thing for any 


NO SERVICE AT ST. PHILIP’S. 


193 


man of average endurance to expect, to walk ten miles over a 
villanous rough road in an hour and a quarter, and read ser- 
vice and preach a sermon at the end of it. He walked back 
to the house, to find no one but Christine ready for breakfast. 
Mrs. Sherman appeared after the lapse of a half-hour. She 
was not in very good spirits ; it would have been temper instead 
of spirits at fault if she had been in the bosom of her family. 
She had to wear her bonnet (which Madeline had ungraciously 
straightened out for her, and which still looked rather cowed 
and miserable), because she had no breakfast-cap, and because, 
for reasons of state, she never appeared without some exterior 
decorations on her head. Now, a bonnet at table never has a 
look of domestic comfort and enjoyment, much less of convi- 
viality ; and Mrs. Sherman’s bonnet may be used as a reason 
for the entire absence both of comfort and enjoyment, not to 
say anything of conviviality, at that Sunday morning’s meal. 

The weather was the finest to be imagined, and the sunshine 
more than ever seemed “ a glorious birth but the party all 
looked like so many blinking owls exposed to its brilliancy. 
Madeline seemed absolutely ‘dull — pale and haggard, and not 
amiable when obliged to speak. Christine was very languid ; 
Colonel Steele very solicitous to know if she were ill, and very 
uncomfortable at her coldness and apathy. Mr. Leslie was 
engrossed with the care of his sprained wrist and barked shins, 
and Mr. Brockhulst’s state of mind excused his silence. The 
breakfast would not have been a long one, for no one seemed 
inclined to eat except Mr. Leslie — who never was known to 
refuse his oats — but Mrs. Sherman, totally thrown off her ba- 
lance by having slept on a straw bed and dressed herself and 
come down without a cap, revolted openly at the coffee, and 
demanded that a second boiling should be made. This occa- 
sioned great delay, and the second attempt proving no happier 
than the first, Mrs. Sherman sent word she would try [the tea. 
There was none made. Then let some be made. Again a 

9 


194 


NO SERVICE AT ST. PHILIP'S. 


long delay, during wliicli Mr. Brocklmlst tried to steady Lis 
mind by repeating the Thirty-Nine Articles to himself, and say- 
ing the multiplication-table backwards. 

But making the tea was a long operation ; the kettle had 
got “ off the boil,” and the fire was nearly out, the coals 
having been raked out to hurry up the second boiling of 
coffee, and being now scattered and dead. There was a great 
flying out to the wood-pile for ckips, puffing and blowing at 
the coals, and anxious listening for the first symptom of a 
simmer from the kettle. During which time the party at the 
table thumped a little with their egg-spoons, munched a little 
toast, now very cold, talked about the weather, made a few 
poor jokes upon the breakfast, listened secretly a good deal 
to the march of events in the “lean to,” and tried to be 
polite while they all felt very much exasperated. 

At length the tea came — very feeble, of a pale copper color, 
and with the tea-leaves floating on the surface ; the boiling of 
the water having been anticipated a few seconds by the anx- 
ious maid, and the making of the tea being altogether pre- 
mature. 

Mrs. Sherman pushed back her cup and rose from the 
table ; would Colonel Steele order the horses to the door 
immediately — certainly Colonel Steele would. But Patrick 
had not had his breakfast ; ten minutes were allowed to him, 
and then the horses were at the door. Although Mrs. Sher- 
man had breakfasted in her bonnet, apparently armed cajo-a- 
fie for travelling, there was still much to be done before they 
were en route. Madeline, who had to officiate as lady’s maid, 
could not make her gloves button nor get her mantelet 
straight; and between the young belle’s impatience and th 
old belle’s self-will, there seemed a chance they would spend 
the balance of their days on the mountain. 

Finally, they were off! — just as the hands of the poor 
clergyman’s watch marked nine twenty-five ; an hour for a 


NO SERVICE AT ST. PHILIP’S. 


195 


ten miles’ ride, of which six were of the roughest nature, and 
with a heavy barouche, and horses who had never before 
been together. In fact, the Colonel’s horse waa very little 
used to going in harness, and submitted with a very bad 
grace to the unaccustomed yoke. About half way down the 
mountain he began to kick, and at last succeeded in causing 
some break in the harness which necessitated another delay 
Mr. Brockhulst and the coachman at last tinkered it up, and 
going very slowly to prevent its giving way, proceeded on their 
journey. 

This was but the beginning of delays and accidents ; »t half 

past twelve the carriage drove into just in time to meet 

the dispersing members of the Methodist, the Presbyterian, 
and the Baptist meetings. Mr. Brockhulst kept his seat firmly, 
but it must be confessed his heart sank very low as he caught 
the wondering eyes levelled at the box where he sat beside 
the coachman. Of course they met the Bishop : that he was 
prepared for. He had felt certain of it ever since the possi- 
bility of this detention had dawned upon his mind. She 
stared at the carriage, checked herself in a start of horror, 
pressed her lips together, and walked quickly on. 

But the worst of it was passing the church itself, with its 
shut gate and locked door; the seeing half-a-dozen Sunday- 
school children playing together at a corner, and the knowing 
that this example of Sabbath-breaking by the minister was sink- 
ing deep into their minds. To do the young minister justice, he 
only thought of the scandal as it would injure others, never 
with the fear of its doing him personally any harm. Poor 
fellow ! To the last day of his clerical career he felt the 
effects of that Sunday’s history. 

And Madeline and Christine each thought, as they wel- 
comed the quiet of their own rooms, that the whole expedition 
was one which they would be glad to banish from their memory 
as well as from the memory of all who had had part in it. 


196 


OLD HUNDEED, 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

OLD HUNDRED. 

“A noble heart, like the sun, showeth its greatest countenance in its lowest estate.” 

Sir Philip Sidney. 

From •that day forth Mr. Brockhulst’s path was do longer 
strewn with roses ; those that bloomed for him at the Hill 
were too thickly beset with thorns and of too bitter a per- 
fume to deserve the name of roses. He began to see through 
Mrs. Sherman, and the sight brought him alarm and humi- 
liation. He began to understand Madeline, he thought, and 
the knowledge gave him bitter pain. The certainty that he 
had been deceived in his reading of the one character, made 
him more certain that he had been deceived in the other. 
He forswore the society of Madeline, and eschewed the Hill 
as far as it was possible for him to do, considering his thou- 
sand parochial entanglements with Mrs. Sherman. He longed 
to break away entirely from her influence and manage parish 
matters as seemed good to him himself. But that was not so 
easy. Mrs. Sherman had got things in her own hands, and 
she had no idea of giving up the reins. Mr. Brockhulst found 
himself helpless; he himself had appointed Mrs. Sherman as 
the head of the two charitable societies connected with the 
church, and had placed her in charge of the parish school. 

He literally found himself superseded in every department 
but the strictly clerical one ; he still preached and administered 
the sacraments at his own discretion, but the surplice or the 
cassock rn which ‘ he did it were not at all discretionary. 
The music was taken entirely out of his control ; the change 


OLD HUNDRED. 


197 


worked by Mrs. Sherman in this department caused great 
rejoicing among the more refined people of the congregation, 
but there was a large proportion who shook their heads at 
the strange preludes and unfamiliar chants, and sat down 
doggedly at the beginning of the elongated Te Deums and 
pirouetting solos of the choir. A thoroughbred organist came 
up every Saturday night from town ; one or two good voices 
were found among the country girls, Colonel Steele sang a 
fine tenor, and Madeline was prima donna. Her taste in music 
was very pure, and her voice of extraordinary power. She 
had found her greatest pleasure in this occupation for the 
past month, and the music really had been very fine. They 
were beginning to talk of it everywhere in town, and a good 
many, not otherwise interested, were attending service for the 
pleasure that the music gave them. A good deal that was 
Popish and a good deal that was operatic was of course dis- 
covered ; but still people came to listen and to admire and 
to find fault. Certainly the choir took a wide range in their 
selections ; if Mr. Brockhulst had known more of music he 
would have been the first to have restricted them ; but he 
only heard the voice of Madeline, and he listened for nothing 
else. 

But the old-fashioned people, with the Bishop at their head, 
were alarmingly disaffected. Not even the inroads upon the 
chancel had disedified them as much, nor the new hours for 
service, nor the new principles upon which the charities were 
dispensed. The abolition of the old tunes struck a blow deeper 
than all these ; the service no more seemed the same to them ; 
the church was no longer home. 

The leader in the choir of other days, a great, heavily-built 
man, six feet tall, with a chest deep as an ocean cavern, had 
given up his place with the best arid most forgiving temper ; 
but his friends could not submit to his deposition with as good 
a grace. He was a favorite in the parish, and in the town as 


198 


OLD HUNDEED. 


well ; in his slow way, he was a good neighbor, a good brothei, 
a good church member, and had spent fifty very blameless years 
among the people of . He was a brother of Richard Gil- 

more, and never having married, was a good deal at his 
brother’s house, and very fond of Harry, who was his godson. 
He had more energy and purpose than Richard had, and was 
perhaps in every way a stronger man ; but the two were very 
much alike in their easy, moderate tempers, and their safe and 
wise philosophy. 

Ever since he had been old enough to be proud of his deep, 
bass voice, it had been at the service of the church, and the 
great pleasure and interest of his life grew to be thorough exer- 
cise of this gift in that place. He was a really devout wor- 
shipper, with a good deal of the Methodist in him, which was, 
however, satisfied with the expression that it found in music, 
and which endeared to his great heart every line of the old 
hymns he had sung for so many years. His voice was tremen- 
dous, an unequalled bass or strength and depth, but his accent 
was deplorable, and his ear not of the best. In the old tunes 
to which he was accustomed he was tolerably correct, but it was 
quite impossible for him to turn the great torrent of his voice 
into new channels ; he could not keep up with the new organ- 
ist, and could not learn a note of his new part ; and so at last 
he told the choir he was afraid he’d only be a hindrance to 
them, and he thanked ’em kindly for the pains they had been 
at to teach him, but he guessed he’d better give it up, and he 
wished ’em good luck in all heartiness, and then he took up 
his old music book, and with something swelling up painfully 
in his throat, went down the winding steps from the organ-loft 
for the last time. 

On the next Sunday, even the musically-educated people 
missed his deep, familiar bass with regret, but soon all was for- 
gotten in the glory of the new achievements of the choir. His 
familiar sobriquet of “Old Hundred” still clung to him, but 


OLD HUNDRED. 


199 


his voice was never heard in church, and only resounded now 
and then from under his low, blacksmith’s shed between the 
sturdy strokes that echoed from the anvil. He still came regu- 
larly to church, undeterred by the evil counsel of his brother’s 
wife, who w'as very bitter against the aristocratical intrusion 
He sat under the gallery and looked huge and clumsy, and very 
much out of place, following the sermon with painful attention 
and beating time involuntarily to the music, 

Phoebe Gilmore took up the aflfront to her brother-in-law verj 
warmly. She left the church herself, and would have with 
drawn Harry from the Sunday-school, but for Richard’s posi 
live interdiction. He was not much of a church-goer him- 
self, but he meant Harry should be brought up to be ; and as 
soon as the boy was well enough, he sent him back to school ; 
but Master Harry had not lain on the bed for three weeks 
and listened to the bitter talk of his mother and those sympa- 
thizing neighbors who loved to hear hard facts about their 
betters, without acquiring a good deal of knowledge on the 
subject. He imbibed his mother’s prejudices in a degree, and 
went very sullenly back to Sunday-school, where he made 
himself so troublesome, and showed himself so stubborn, that 
he was soon complained of to the clergyman, whose experience 
with him in the class of every day made him quite ready to 
believe the worst that could be told. 

The consequence was, a warning to his parents that unless he 
proved himself more docile, he would be dismissed both from 
day-school and from Sunday-school. There was a terrible 
scene at the cottage after this occurred, but Richard again car- 
ried the day, for the second time since this protracted campaign 
commenced, and Harry was sent back to school, with so bad 
a disposition towards it, though, that the course to be pursued 
with him became a subject of serious discussion. 

Mr. Brockhulst consulted several of his vestrymen, who unani- 
mously advised him (with the sound judgment usually dis- 


200 


OLD HUNDRED. 


played by people who only hear half a case) not to be tor- 
mented with the little rascal any further, but to dismiss him 
from the school. So, to poor Richard’s great dismay, this at 
last was done, and Harry came home one morning, flushed 
and frightened, with the dread letter in his hand. 

Poor Harry ! The seeds that that morning’s experience 
planted were the deadly growth that blasted his whole future. 
He did not deserve such a fate, happy, honest-hearted little 
loafer, believing only what his passionate mother taught him 
and acting up to the knowledge he possessed. In her vindic- 
tive utterings he thought he heard the truth ; in the depressed 
and gloomy looks of his father, he read a confirmation of the 
fate that turned every one against him. 

Phoebe Gilmore, indeed, had excuse for some of her com- 
plaints. Harry always had been treated harshly. Julian 
Hpham set him on to much of his evil doings, and then left 
him to bear the punishment. And now, since this notorious 
affair in which Julian had so nearly proved the murderer of 
Harry, things had gone on just the same as ever, and had cul- 
minated in the dismissal of Harry and the entire escape of 
Julian from chastisement. 

It was not very much wonder that money, and the authority 
that money brings, explained all this to Phoebe’s mind ; and 
the contempt thrown on her brother-in-law’s faithful services 
for so many years, swelled the weight of grievances beyond her 
power of mind. Her ambition had been baulked in so many 
ways, it turned into a resentment against those who had so 
baulked it, and she had no stronger feeling now than the desire 
to oppose and injure them. She not only left the Church and 
made herself prominent in another, but she spread all manner 
of evil reports regarding those from whose communion she 
withdrew. Indeed, such a scandal was created by what she 
said of the young minister and Mrs. Sherman’s ruling voioe in 
everything, that the whole town was soon strongly prejudiced 


OLD HUNDRED. 


201 


against the clergyman and his lady patroness, and the matter 
came to the ears of those concerned. 

Mrs. Sherman was strongly excited, and allowed her husband 
no rest day or night till he consented to give Richard Gilmore 
warning that the mill and cottage would be wanted for another 
tenant after his lease expired. His lease was very near its ex- 
piration, and this was truly a heavy blow to the easy-going man 
who had never dreamed of the possibility of ending his days 
under any other roof. It was like beginning the world afresh 
and for the first day or two he went about the old mill and its 
surroundings like a person in a dream. 

Unfortunately, during these events. Dr. Upham was confined 
by illness to his room. It was some time before it came to his 
ears that Phoebe Gilmore had left the church and was in such 
a state of mind regarding it. He sent for her to come to him 
several times, but she never came, and so all chance of his 
influence was lost. Christine she treated with such coldness, 
it became impossible to do her any good through her, and the 
result was, Phoebe went on in her unfortunate and sinful course 
unchecked by any voice but that of her mild husband and his 
brother. Harry’s dismissal from the school, however, and the 
notice to Richard to give up the mill, were so many arguments 
on her side she thought, and indeed for a while did silence her 
advisers. 

Meanwhile, Richard began to look slowly round him for 
something to do next spring when his day of going out should 
come. Harry was turned loose on the town, and was fas! 
becoming a little vagabond. Phoebe still sowed her angrj- 
seeds of mischief. Mrs. Sherman still did the Lady Bountiful, 
and worked maliciously to put down the Bishop and Phoebe 
and the disaffected. Mr. Brockhulst grew paler, and thinner, 
and worked himself to death without any heart in his work, 
knowing that there was a fault somewhere hidden in it that 
turned it into failure. Dr. Upham watched the troubles from 

9 * 


202 


OLD HUNDRED. 


his quiet room of sickness with many regrets, but with a seri. 
ous trust that they would all terminate harmoniously. Chris- 
tine felt them deeply, and kept as much away from the Hill as 
it was possible for her to do, and tried to throw all her influence 
on Mr. Brockhulst’s side. Madeline was in a strange state of 
restlessness and perverseness, now throwing herself heart and 
soul into the quarrel, and riding rough-shod over all the village 
people who had meddled in the matter, and now tossing it all 
aside in disgust and laughing at both sides, and doing a great 
deal of harm to all. Dr. Catherwood looked on thoughtfully^ 
and saw no way of doing good, and so was silent; spending 
most of his evenings at home, never going to the Hill and Par- 
sonage unless expressly sent for, and working with his usual 
kindness among the poor and suffering. 

• And so the heat of summer evaporated and crystallized itself 
into the bright, clear, sparkling days of autumn ; the nuts were 
brown in the forests, the grapes hung ripe on the garden walls, 
the leaves began to fall from the trees that shaded the broad 
streets, and the hillsides grew yellow and brown. 


THE END OP THE SUMMEE’s CAMPAIGN. 


203 




CHAPTER XXVIir. 

THE END OF THE SDMMEr’s CAMPAIGN. 

** Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher ; then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher, 

Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher ; the nice yellow guineas for me.” 

• - Burns. 

It was one of the last and brightest days ot October ; Made- 
line Clybourne’s little room was full of tranks and boxes, and 
dresses, folded and unfolded, and Madeline herself, with a dis- 
contented air, lay on the bed with a novel in her hand. Mrs. 
Clybourne, with a very harassed and worn expression, was 
busied about the packing ; Madeline felt this was not right, she 
had made a great many remonstrances, and in truth would have 
been more comfortable to have tired herself out with the work 
than to have lain still and watched her mother do it. But she 
had not been very well for the last month, and she was bidden 
to keep quiet and to save herself for the evening. In the even- 
ing all the people from the Hill, Christine and one or two 
others, were coming there to tea. The next morning Mrs. 
Sherman was going to town for the winter ; the house at the 

Hill would once more be closed, and the gay season of was 

at its end. 

]\Irs. Sherman was secretly glad to be going. She was a lit- 
tle tired of “ Dorcas” and the ragged school ; and the Bishop 
and her colleagues were bearing pretty hard upon her. She 
felt as if the town would be a very welcome change, and she 

was turning her back on ^ with a feeling of some relief. 

She thought the church should take care of itself another year ; 
it had proved ungrateful. She had been very anxious to take 


20i THE END OF THE SUMMEB’S CAMPAIGN. 

Christine and Madeline both with her for a visit, to take off the 
edge of the first few days’ ennui^ but Christine was not to be 
persuaded, and only Madeline was going. Mrs. Clybourne had 
consented very readily to her daughter’s being absent for a 
month, and she sincerely hoped the month might be prolonged 
into the season. It was Madeline’s only chance of seeing so 
ciety at all, for her wardrobe, her musical education, and the 
additional expenses of their more enlarged way of living, had 
already, in these few months, eaten up two-thirds of the widow’s 
narrow income. 

The wrinkles were deepening fast in Mrs. Clybourne’s hand- 
some face ; she looked thin and worn, and excepting in society, 
was troubled and silent ; Madeline felt very unhappy at home — 
things were not going right about tlie money, she was sure, al- 
though her mother made no confidante of her. She gave her 
handsome clothes, and though Madeline wanted the handsome 
clothes and yearned for them with the ardor of a young and 
pretty woman, she felt uncomfortable at every dollar that w^aa 
expended for her decoration, and felt vaguely that it was not 
right, and that she should have more self-respect and be more 
happy if she could get altogether out of this state of things. 
She hoped it would not last long ; of course it would not, she 
should soon be in a position to relieve her mother’s cares and to 
forget there was such a thing in the world as the cares that nar- 
row incomes bring. No doubt it would have been nobler in 
Madeline to have stood still for a moment, looked before and 
after, shaken off the shackles of education and prejudice, re- 
leased herself from the trammels of the world, and taken the 
purer and freer life. But Madeline was very young, ill-taught 
in her duty, and strong in her ambition, and her respect for her 
mother was still too great to admit of her independent action. 

Mrs. Clybourne was relieved on more accounts than one, to 
have her go with Mrs. Sherman. She saw that Madeline’s stay 
at home during these quiet winter months could have but one 


THE END OF THE SUMMER’S CAMPAIGN. 205 

result — after the turmoil atid excitement of life at the Hill was 
over, there would be nothing to counteract the germ of senti- 
ment which the mother had been so long combating; she 
knew her daughter’s heart much better than the daughter did 
herself. The young clergyman was a worse enemy to Mrs. 
Clybourne’s peace than even the fast melting income was. 
She had seen from the first the sort of romance that surround 
ed him in Madeline’s eyes; she had interpreted correctly her 
sudden interest in church and charity. She knew what her 
restlessness and uncertain temper meant — her delight in sacred 
music, her enthusiasm for certain books and theories. She was 
much too wise to betray the discoveries she had made. Made- 
line never guessed her mother had a suspicion of the foolish 
thoughts that were dancing through her head all day, nor that 
to her insight she owed it that they were so often broken in 
upon and scattered by suggestions of ambition and hopes of 
admiration and conquest in society. Madeline did not know 
exactly whether she wanted to go to town or not ; her mother 
filled her head with ideas of the pleasures that she had in pros- 
pect, but her heart was clinging unconsciously to the summer’s 
romance. She was angry and mortified by the neglect to 
which she could not blind herself, but she felt a hope that her 
absence would prove too strong a trial to him, and she should 
see him at Mrs. Sherman’s house in town, long before her visit 
there was ended. 

The summer’s campaign, gay as it had been and full of plea- 
sure to the daughter, had been anything but satisfactory to the 
mother. Among all the men who had surrounded Madeline, and 
whose attentions to her had been lavish, there was not one whom 
she could think of marrying, or who, in fact, seemed to think of 
marrying her. Society, just then, was full of very young and 
very insignificant men. Some of the gayest and most desira- 
ble of these stayed constantly at Mrs. Sherman’s house ; they 
were exquisites in dress, some of them tolerably amiable and 


206 


THE END OF THE SUMMER’S CAMPAIGN. 


well bred, but most of them indifferently educated, belonging to 
families of no social importance, and all, without exception, una. 
ble to marry any one who had not a fortune to bring to them. 
Mrs. Clybourne, used to the more refined and exclusive society 
of the last generation, could with difficulty reconcile herself to 
the necessity of Madeline’s associating with such men ; but see- 
ing that her success as a beauty depended upon her favor with 
such as these, she laid aside her prejudices as became a faith- 
ful mother, and entertained them at her house, and bade Made- 
line be amiable among them. She could not fail to see that 
constant intercourse with young men for whom she felt no 
shadow of respect, and whose manners were free and careless 
with every one they met, had lowered and altered Madeline’s 
tone of thought ; and not only her tone of thought, but her 
manners, her style of dress, her choice of language, had suffered 
a shade of change. Only a shade, however; for the magnet 
within, with a.ll its trembling vibrations, was as yet pointing 
true, and the careful mother’s whole ingenuity was now ex- 
pended in shattering that guide and diverting that strong influ- 
ence. 

This bright, cool October day was a very trying one to Mrs. 
Clybourne ; besides packing Madeline’s trunks and putting the 
last, stitch upon a dozen things, neglected by the careless wearer, 
and ordering and preparing tea for perhaps a dozen guests (no 
insignificant duty this in such a household as hers), she had 
two great weights upon her mind ; the first was, the news of 
the illness of one of Susie’o children, at whose bedside she felt 
she ought to be; and the second, the arrival home, the day be- 
fore, of her worthless young son, Raymond. He had turned up 
at intervals ever since sho had first sent him off, at the precise 
moment when she had felt that a straw more would break her 
down completely. She had, at this time, been feeling quite 
safe about him, and had, perhaps, been a little more lavish in 
her expenditures on account of this very security that he was 


THE END OF THE SUMMER’S CAMPAIGN. 207 

doing well, and was out of the way for a long time to ccme 
With great effort she had obtained for him a valuable clerkship 
in a mercantile house in China, where with decent industry she 
was assured he could not fail to rise. She knew he had not 
decent industry and she did not expect him to rise ; she only 
hoped that as, in the strict discharge of duty, very little was 
required of him, he might sit still for a while. Alas ! he would 
not even consent to do that ; he did not find life in Shanghai 
to his taste; he came back in the next steamer and presented 
himself at home without any* other excuse for what he had 
done than that it was “too deuced unpleaso.nt hot” 

Poor Mrs. Clybourne ! Here he was again upon her hands 
with his expensive tastes and reckless habits, when by the strict- 
est economy she had hoped to struggle through the winter by 
herself, while Madeline stayed in town ; and he was such an 
injury to Madeline at just this time ; a loafer of a brother, having 
neither dignity to protect nor good name to advantage a sister, 
is always a serious drawback to her success. No man wants to 
marry a girl whose brother is sure to be a disgrace, and whose 
family are a dead weight on his hands. If Raymond had only 
stayed a year away till Madeline’s future lot was settled, he 
might then have come back, and his mother would have shared 
her slender income with him cheerfully, nay, given him all of it 
that necessity did not claim, for she had no ambition but the , 
success and advancement of her children. 

Meanwhile, she felt her duty was growing a hopelessly heavy 
burden, and that life presented few charms to her of any kind. 
Middle life is always a trying, weary point in the long journey, 
even to those whose aims are high ; but when only lighted by 
ambition, and still consecrated to the world in however generous 
a form, it is gloomy beyond expression. 


208 


ANOTHER CHANGE. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

ANOTHER CHANGE. 

“ The wind blows out, the bubble dies, 

The spring entombed in autumn lies ; ' 

The stream dries up, the star is shot, 

The flight is past, and man forgot.” 

King. 

The little parlor of Mrs. Clybourne’s cottage looked bright arid 
cheerful enough to satisfy even its weary mistress that evening. 
People from large houses often enjoy being entertained in small 
ones, and Mrs. Sherman said with great truth, the hours she 
spent at Mrs. Clybourne’s were among the pleasantest she had 
ever known in . 

She was very tired of her great rooms and the monotonous 
march of events in her household economy. She often declared 
Mrs. Clybourne the happiest of women in having such a little 
hijou of a house, without any care at all, without any housekeeper 
to feel her importance and ride over her ; without any men- 
servants to get impudent and be discharged ; without any 
orders to give for dinner-parties, and without the Judge to be 
dissatisfied with whatever she , might do. Mrs. Clybourne 
always smiled, and said cheerfully : “Yes, it was very pleasant ; 
certainly she had a great deal to be thankful for.” She knew 
very well she should gain nothing by asking sympathy in her 
mean and unromantic trials ; poverty is not a misfortune that 
exalts the sufferer. Money troubles are troubles that had better 
be kept always in the background. Mrs. Clybourne was wisely 
silent about the years of her life, if they were all put together, 


ANOTHER CHANGE. 


209 


which she had spent in worrying to get the ends together, in 
litt’le devices to stretch out a cobweb along an acre without 
breaking it — the dulling of her “cunning brain,” the drying up 
and exhausting of all her nobler feelings, in the contemptible 
but inevitable struggle with the little, mean, and sordid part of 
living. 

She meant, generously, that Madeline should know nothing 
of this ; but Madeline was too quick to be deceived ; she knew 
there was pinching poverty at the bottom of her mother’s purse, 
so rigidly shut against all self-indulgences, so conscientiously 
opened whenever her amusement or advantage was in question. 
And the only way to end all this was for her to make a wealthy 
marriage, which she had a general intention of doing, though 
she had grown rather averse to thinking about it, except in a 
very general and indefinite way. 

Although she had been ennuyke and out of spirits all day, 
she looked very well and was very brilliant in the evening. 
Mrs. Sherman had the Colonel, Mr. Leslie, and a Mr. Bowden, 
staying at the Hill, whom she brought with her ; Christine, who 
was looking her prettiest in a white dress and the favorite mala- 
chites ; and two of the Miss Bichfields, completed the party. Mr. 
Brockhulst had been too much engaged to come, and Dr. 
Catherwood, as usual, had found some excuse for staying away. 
Raymond was very gentlemanly looking, in fact it was the only 
thing he was, ^nd it generally carried him through a month of 
favor with those he met for the first time, and Mrs. Sherman 
with her usual discrimination was making quite a hero of him. 
She regretted he had come back just as they were going away ; 
he would have added so much to the pleasure of their summer; 
but he must come and stay with them in town while Madeline 
was there ; she should not let him off without a promise, 

Mrs. Sherman was fond of cards, and Raymond of course 
played with her. The others all fell into the same amusement, 
and presently every one was more or less engrossed with whist 


210 


ANOTHER CHANGE. 


At the end of one game at his table, while shuffling the 
cards for the beginning of another, Raymond said in his slow, 
lounging manner : “What do you tliink I heard in the town 
this afternoon ? Mr. Brockhulst has resigned, and his resigna- 
tion has been unanimously accepted.” 

“ What !” cried Mrs. Sherman, with a start, while Madeline 
dropped her cards into her lap. 

“ Impossible !” cried several voices. 

“ I have not the least faith in it,” exclaimed Mrs. Sherman, 
while the elder Miss Richfield said wisely, it did not surprise 
her in the least, from what she had heard her father say. Now 
Mr. Richfield was a warden, and all eyes turned upon Miss 
Richfield with great interest. Miss Richfield felt herself 
invested with a good deal of importance from that circumstance, 
and declined to be explicit, as people always do when they feel 
themselves invested with importance ; but she could only say, 
it did not surprise her in the least ; on the contrary, it wmiild 
have surprised her much more if he had not resigned. This 
was confirmation sure, coming from a warden’s daughter, and 
the fact was accepted in its naked deformity. 

“ The ungrateful man,” exclaimed Mrs. Sherman, with great 
warmth of manner ; “ after all I have done for him — well, I 
never shall believe in clergymen again.” 

A great laugh of approval from the gentlemen followed this 
remark ; ecclesiastical stock was going down, they said ; now 
there would be some chance of appreciation for the laity. 

“ Yes,” drawled Raymond, “ now I shan’t be waked up every 
morning by that horrid bell at six.’’ 

“ Now Miss Christine will have time to do something besides 
go to church,” said Colonel Steele. 

“And Miss Madeline will not be always working sermon 
covers, and Gothic pattern slippers,” added Mr. Leslie. 

“ And there will not be any more Fairs at present, I sup- 
pose,” said Mr. Bowden, who had an aggrieved recollection 


ANOTHER CHANGE. 


211 


of the money he had been obliged to spend at the recent 
festivity at the Hill. 

“ Shan’t you see him to say good-by to him, Mrs. Sher- 
man?” asked Madeline, trying to be very nonchalant as she 
assorted her cards. “ My lead, did you say ?” and she played 
the queen of trumps at random. 

“Miss Madeline! vi^hat are you thinking of?” cried Mr 
Leslie. 

While Mrs. Sherman answered absently as she put down her 
king : “See him ? Why, no, unless he should come up in the 
morning. But he will probably be in town after a day or two, 
and then I shall tell him what I think of him. Mr. Clybourne, 
if I only knew what trumps you held 1” 

And so the great news came and passed, and beyond a few 
allusions to it in the course of the evening, there was no further 
interest shown. Christine felt glad that it was over. She had 
known this or something worse must come, and now it was a 
relief to feel he was going away. She w'ondered to see Made- 
line taking it so quietly, but after all, she must have been mis- 
taken in Madeline’s feelings towards him. The fact was, Made- 
line was thinking, “ I shall surely see him in a day or two in 
town, and then there will be an explanation. He will stay at 
Mrs. Sherman’s, and it will be all made up.” 

Christine had Colonel Steele for her partner, and she was 
dreading every moment the breaking up of the party, and the 
possibility of his going home with her. • It was a short distance 
to the Parsonage; Ann, the waitress, was coming for her at 
half-past ten o’clock, but she knew very well Colonel Steele 
would make Ann go back and would walk with her himself. 
This would be his last opportunity of speaking to her till she 
came to town to pay Mrs. Sherman the visit her father had 
promised for next month ; and Christine was very right in con- 
jecturing he meant to find a chance to speak with her. He 
rightly divined, if she had any kindness fcT him, this was the 


212 


ANOTHER CHANGE. 


best moment, when the freedom of country life was still on his 
side, the sentiment called up by the ended summer, and the 
breaking up of a pleasant and intimate companionship. He 
played rather an inattentive game, he w’as listening so carefully 
for Ann’s step on the piazza, and was so much afraid lest Leslie, 
or Bowden, or that wretched Raymond should get before him 
in sending Ann away, and saying : “ Miss Upham, it is too 
early yet; you must let me walk over to the Parsonage with 
you after our game is ended.” 

Christine was listening, too, for Ann’s approach ; it was not 
quite half-past ten when she heard the gate open ; her heart gave 
a nervous little bound, and she resolved afresh upon the words 
to use in declining Colonel Steele’s kind offer and going off 
instantly and alone with Ann. Colonel Steele heard the gate 
open, too, and the words prepared am hour ago were upon his 
lips, when a step came on the piazza, which was not Ann’s by 
any chance. It was a man’s tread ; it crossed the piazza, 
entered the hall, and the parlor door opened and admitted Dr. 
Catherwood. 

Colonel Steele ground his teeth together. The moment 
Christine caught sight of him she dropped her cards and half 
rose, and ejaculated in an apprehensive tone, “Julian ?” 

Dr. Catherwood’s hrow contracted for an instant ; it w^as not 
pleasant to feel the sight of him brought a painful association 
only. “Well, what about Julian?” he said, with a pleasant 
smile, as he went up to the table where Mrs. Clybourne sat, and 
apologized for neglecting her invitation. 

“ I fancied he might be ill and you had come for me,” she 
said, not entirely reassured by his deliberation. 

“ Well, I have come for you,” he answered, returning to her 
side ; “and Julian is ill, but not seriously. Now ! no alarm, no 
hurry ; I assure you he is not much amiss. Go, get your cloak 
while I make your excuses for you ; I know you will have no 
peace till you get back to him.” 


ANOTHER CHANGE. 


213 


Christine disappeared before he had finished speaking, and 
when she returned she hardly gave him time to say good-night. 
Mrs. Sherman, however, seized her and detained her several 
minutes, kissing her good-by, and making her confirm hei 
father’s promise about her visit in November, and all the gen- 
tlemen had much to say about their hopes of seeing her very 
soon in the city for the winter, and Madeline had a great many 
kisses to give and many charges about writing, and Colonel 
Steele had to content himself with a mere good-by, and see 
her leave the house with the man of whom, notwithstanding all 
his protests, h^ was sure he had reason to be much afraid. 


214 


PHCEBE GILMOEE’S EEMOESB. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THCEBE Gilmore’s remorse. 

“And is there in God’s world so drear a place. 

Where the loud bitter cry is rais’d in vaia? 

Where tears of penance come too late for grace, 

As on th’ uprooted flower the genial rain?” 

Eeble. 

While Mrs. Sherman and the party at the Clybournes’ glanced 
off their cards and chatted in parenthesis of Mr. Brockhulst’s 
resignation, another group, in another very different room, 
talked in a very different way about it. 

A tallow candle stood on the deal-table of the kitchen in the 
miller’s house ; Phoebe sitting beside it, flashed her bright, sharp 
needle in and out the heavy piece of work upon her lap, bent 
her head down and listened silently to the two men talking by 
her, only emitting now and then from her black eyes a gleam 
of malicious pleasure, or from her compressed lips a sharp and 
stinging sentence. Harry, on a bench beside the fire, roasted 
chestnuts in the ashes, and did not lose a word said by his 
elders. The miller and his brother were talking moderately 
and sensibly ; the miller’s wife was giving point and venom to 
all their matter-of-fact remarks. She had a secret consciousness 
that she had helped to bring this work about, and it gave her a 
triumphant pleasure, but also a little sensation of remorse and 
apprehension. It piqued her that neither her husband nor his 
brother would express the exultation that they should have felf 
in the downfall of the minister. 

Old Hundred, sitting forward with his elbows squared and 


PUCEBE GILMOKE’S REMORSE. 


215 


his hands upon his knees, said openly that he was sorry that 
the young minister had not tried a little longer ; it was a pity 
for a man to give up' heart the first mistake he made. Richard 
did not say much one way or the other ; the fact was, Harry’s dis- 
missal from school was a sore thing with him yet ; if he had been 
capable of bearing malice towards any human being, be would 
have borne it towards the man who had, however ignorantly 
struck him in the softest and tenderest corner of his heart, lie 
felt that his boy was injured and hardly dealt by, and he could 
not quite forgive the offender. Ilis heart was sore about a good 
many things — j^nd very heavy when he thought about the 
future. He did not see what he was to do. At his time of 
life it was hard to begin the world afresh ; things looked insur- 
mountable to him now, that, when he was a younger man, would 
have presented no barrier at all ; all doubts w'ere burdens, and 
all burdens lay like lead upon him. Still he was not bitter, 
nor morose, not even sullen ; only silent, and heavy, and 
depressed. 

Ilis brother came down almost every evening now, for he 
felt that Richard needed him ; and though there was little said 
or done to clear up the cloud, still the trouble drew them close 
together and made a sort of strength between them. 

Old Hundred had not much to offer Richard, except his 
strong hand and great kind heart. He was not the sort of man 
to be a prosperous man ; he had worked hard all his life, but his 
earnings had not stayed by him ; and poor rektions and poor 
neighbors had had no compassion on his purse. All that he had, 
and it was very little, was understood to be for Harry when he 
was done with it. He began to wish now, when he saw his 
br:)ther’s trouble and saw no way out of it, that he had been 

little harder-hearted, and had not given way to everything 
that moved his pity. What had he to offer now to him and 
his family, turned houseless on the world without a cent ahead? 
Nothing, absolutely nothing, but a roof to shelter them. The 


216 


PHCEBE Gilmore’s remorse. 


little tumble-down cottage which stood by his blacksmith -shop 
w^as so out of repair he could not fancy Phoebe living in it 
wdthout'a sinking of the heart. He had lived in it till he had 
got used to its leaks, and cracks, and unsteady floors j when the 
wall fell down in one room, he shut it up and went into another ; 
when the rain found its way through one corner, he moved his 
bed into another, and so time had gone on crumbling his house 
before his eyes for years, and he had not heeded its encroach- 
ments on his comfort; but when it came before his mind as a 
home for those he loved, it seemed indeed a ruin to him. He 
lost no time in planning its renovation ; before spring it must be 
fit to live in, and that by the work of his own hands, for there 
was no ready money to lay out upon it. 

He had come down to-night to propose to Richard to go up 
to-morrow, and with him begin to work upon it, and so on 
through the winter whenever they had a spare day ; in that 
way neither need lose time nor money, reasoned the unworldly 
brother. Poor old fellow, he felt himself a great unwieldy wall 
about which these helpless ones could only cling and climb, and 
find a miserable support by their own tenacity ; he could do 
nothing for them but stand silent in his clumsy pity. Phoebe’s 
perverse course sometimes tried him very much, but he could 
not find it in his heart to say anything to her, now they were in 
such trouble — and trouble of her own making, too. When they 
were all together under one roof, he thought perhaps he might 
persuade her by#his daily kindness to give up these thoughts of 
malice, and to try the easier yoke and the lighter burden of 
Christian charity. 

He longed to see Richard taking the true view of his misfor 
tunes, and getting up like a man to meet tnem, and calling them 
by their right name. Phoebe’s influence upon hinrwas bad ; 
it always had been, his brother thought, though people said 
Phoebe had been the making of him, and had kept him up to 
what he was. Her ambition indeed had been the stimulant 


pncEBE Gilmore’s remorse. 


211 


that had made his life outwardly more prosperous than his 
brother s, and inwardly less true and Christian. He was almost 
a Christian ; he was very near the kingdom of God by nature, 
but he just missed it by a hair’s breadth. He was not strong 
enough to put aside the daily promptings of the woman who 
had been the love of his youth, and was the companion of his 
life. She called herself a Christian ; well, that was not what 
he called Christianity exactly, and he had not the wisdom to 
discriminate between the pure standard he had within and the 
imperfect life brought before his daily view, and so Phoebe had 
been doing him evil and not good all the days of her life ; while 
she thought, and the world said, she was the best one of the 
two, and to her alone was owing all the prosperity that had 
ever fallen to their lot. She did not feel as ready to embrace 
the credit of their present state of trouble, though the world 
did not hesitate to put a large share of it, too, upon her 
shoulders. 

She was so unreasonable and bitter whenever any mention 
of their future plans was attempted, that it was tacitly under- 
stood between the two men that no allusions to them should 
be made in her presence; so, when anything was to be dis- 
cussed, Richard followed his brother slowly out into the path, 
and the two generally stood for an hour or so beside the gate, 
planning for her comfort and the boy’s, and for hard work 
and self-denial for themselves. When Old Hundred rose up 
that night out of his chair, he seemed to threaten the ceiling, 
but he stopped just short of it, happily, when he was erect, and 
took his pipe out of his mouth, with a look towards Richard 
that the latter understood. 

^ Will you give me a light, Phoebe,” he said, approaching 
the table, “ and I’ll take myself and my pipe out of your clean 
kitchen before we get a-going ?” 

“You needn’t be so careful of it,” she said, tartly, holding 
the candle towards him. “ I don’t take any trouble to keep it 

10 


218 


PHCEBE GILMOBE’S EEMORSE. 


clean nowadays : I’ll take pains to leave it smoked and black 
and dirty as I can for your fine lady’s tenant in the spring. It 
would do my heart good to see it burned down to the ground 
before it brought her in a cent of rent; it’s sure to do her some 
kind of mischief, take my word for it.” 

“You make a mistake, Phoebe; you make a mistake,” ho 
Gaid, taking up his hat, and going slowly to the door, followed 
by his brother. “ I don’t say it to hurt you, but I wish you 
could feel different. It would make you* easier, depend upon 
it; it would make you easier.” 

And with that mild reproof he left her. 

For a long time Richard and he stood by the gate in the 
darkness, smoking and talking at intervals of what lay heavy 
at the hearts of both. At last they parted with an agreement 
to meet in the morning early at the cross-roads, Richard with 
his horse and cart, and both with their shovels, to draw some 
sand for the mason-work about the old house, upon which they 
must ben-in next week. 

o 

In the morning, after the silent breakfast (breakfast was 
always silent now), Richard put the horse before the strong, 
new cart that must be sold with the other fixtures in the 
spring, to pay off what there was no chance of his being able 
to pay otherwise. lie came into the kitchen, which was rather 
dark and gloomy, the sun not being fairly above the horizon, 
and got his pipe and paper of tobacco, and fumbled about the 
cupboard for something which he could not find, and which, 
in fact, he did not want so much as a cheery word from his 
wife, who, busy about the table, turned her back upon him, 
and did not offer a word to him of any kind. 

She knew where he was going, and what his business for the 
day was — but she could not bring herself to speak of it with 
any degree of moderation. The change was too bitter for her 
pride, and she could not be brought to feel gratitude foe the 
shelter of her brother-in-law’s roof. Richard felt sore at heart 


riicEBE Gilmore’s remorse. 


219 


about beginning tlie work without a Avord of encouragement 
from her. There was absolutely nothing ^Ise before them if 
they turned with contempt from this, and he must go forward 
in it with her consent or without it — but without her sanction 
and advice he never had done anything before, and it came 
heavy to him at just this time. She had forbidden him ever 
to speak to her about it, when first it had been mentioned, and 
BO, though he lingered in the kitchen for some moments, he did 
not dare to bring the subject up. She knew what he was 
waiting for, and there was a storm within as she busied herself 
silently about the breakfast, turning away from him. 

At last he went out without a word, with a slow and heavy 
step. As soon as she heard the wheels turning on the gravel, 
she half-relented, and went -quickly to the door. Twice she 
raised her voice to speak, and twice the Avicked spirit caught 
back the words, and stubbornly and in silence she watched him 
walk away beside the cart out into the dim and foggy road with 
bent head and dull, slow step. 

She felt a weight of lead upon her heart as she went back to 
her -work; a Aveight that grew heavier and heavier as the day 
Avent on. She found herself harsh and sharp with Harry, but 
that Avas no unusual thing now ; she felt she had a right to pay 
back even on him some of the evil coin that fate had foisted 
on her. 

The morning passed slowly away, though she worked hard, 
and, Avith an unacknowledged compunction, tried to revoke her 
evil resolution of the day before. She scrubbed and scoured 
the kitchen till it looked cleaner and fresher than it had done 
for many weeks ; then Avith a softness of heart she did not 
admit ev^en to herself, she arranged the dinner Avith express 
reference to the taste and pleasure of her husband. This Avas 
a soothing sort of occupation to her ; she lingered on it Avith 
some satisfaction, and though she kneAv from old experience the 
moment his foot sounded on the threshold, the stubborn cold- 


220 


PH<EBE GILMORE’S REMORSE. 


ness would come back, it still allayed her unspoken remorse 
somewhat to feel she was providing for his comfort. 

Twelve o’clock struck; then half-past, and still he did not 
come. Harry came in, and was very much out of temper at 
being kept waiting for his dinner; his mother was harsh with 
him, and sent him out again very angry. The room was all in 
order; the table was laid; the dinner was steaming hot before 
the fire ; Phoebe had nothing to do whatever ; and too tired 
and spiritless to be impatient, she sat down by the window to 
await her husband’s coming. 

Not till it was some time past one, did she experience abso- 
lute anxiety. Then she got up and walked to the door, then 
down the path, looking up and down the road. There was no one 
in sight, and she came back, feeling a little irritated. Perhaps 
he had not meant to come home to dinner, or had agreed to 
take his dinner with his brother, and had not told her, in 
return for her obstinate silence about his going. But no ; 
that was not Richard ; he could not have done a thing to vex 
her, whatever provocation he might have ; neither could he 
have forgotten. He was considerate and careful of giving 
trouble, but she was so used to his slow, steady thoughtfulness, 
that she seldom refiected on her happiness in being married to 
a man who was neither selfish, nor surly, nor tyrannical, but 
who had put her will voluntarily in place of his own. 

She softened a little while she thought of this — a rare 
thought with her — and went over to the door again and 
listened. Presently she heard the lumbering of a cart along 
the road, and, presto ! all the softness went. She glanced up 
at the clock, and felt she had good reason to be angry at having 
had her work put back an hour and more ; she felt sharp and 
stubborn as she set the meat upon the table and stooped over 
the kettle in which the potatoes lay white and mealy, over* 
done and ready to fall to pieces at the first touch of the ladle. 
She had some tart words ready on her lips to greet her tardy 


PHOEBE GILMORE’S REMORSE. 


221 


husband’s entrance with, but several minutes passed, and he did 
not come. She went to the door. There the cart stood at the 
gate, the horse docile and comfortable, pulling at a tuft of 
grass beside it. The cart was half-full of sand, but the back 
board was down, and the sand had been jolting out all along 
the road. With a sharp misgiving, Phoebe ran down the 
path and looked in both directions. There was no one coming; 
there was nothing unusual in, sight but a trail of the white sand 
lying all along the road as far as she could see. The sun had 
come out and was shining brightly, but the road was damp and 
muddy with the early morning showers. The reins lay on the 
ground, covered with mud and sand, through which they had 
been dragging. What did this mean ? 

Phoebe’s hands shook as she fastened them to the post beside 
the gate, and running into the house caught up her bonnet, 
called to Harry, but did not wait to hear his answer, and 
started down the road. She was very tired with her morning’s 
work, and the agitation and alarm flad made her knees so 
weak and trembling, that she had more than once to sit down 
by the roadside to recover strength. She tried to persuade 
herself there was nothing th alarm her in the horse’s coming 
home ; he had got unfastened and started off while Richard 
was busy about something else; but still she hurried on with 
an apprehension of misfortune. 

It was a long way to the bank where the men had started 
to draw sand, a full mile and a half, and the road lay out of 
town, and was lonely and unfrequented. Phoebe felt as if she 
were in a nightmare — she realized the distance so, and the pos- 
ible misfortune, and the hurry and the weakness of her limbs. 
She seemed to be smothering, and she took off her sun-bonnet 
and fanned herself with it as she hurried forward. Sometimes she 
ran for a few steps, and then she had to stop and lean against 
a tree or fence to get her breath and ease the leaping of her 
heart. She could follow the trail of sand a long way ahead 


222 


PIICEJiE GILMOKe’s remorse. 


Such a long way ! She felt as if it would have been easier if 
she had not seen such a lencrth of road stretching ahead of her 
over which she had to go, before she got rid of this awful sus- 
picion, the very presence of which in her mind, though nothing 
but a suspicion and with almost no foundation, seemed enough 
to drive her mad. 

There was a turn in the road just this side of the embank- 
ment ; a clump of cedar-trees jutted down to the edge of the 
highway from the bank above, and shut out all that was beyond. 
When she reached it she paused a moment and pressed both 
hands against her heart. She should see Richard as she 
turned the corner if he were there and well, and she felt even 
then a faint struggle of pride in betraying her excitement; a 
very faint struggle, though, that was lost in her anxiety ; and 
hardly breathing from the intensity of her feeling, she went 
forward a few steps, turned the corner, and looked towards 
the quarter of the 'bank where the excavations had been made. 

It was about two hundred yards from where she stood ; 
many people, men and women, stood about it, with strangely 
expressive faces ; the sound of shovels and picks was almost 
all that was heard, except the occasional low voices of the 
crowd, and the quick, sharp word of command and inquiry 
from those out of sight behind the bank. There was a great 
fresh mass of sand upon the ground below ; and above, a freshly 
broken, uneven, ragged edge standing out, with grass-roots 
dangling down, and pebbles and sand still rattling occasionallv 
from it. Phoebe knew all at that first. glance as well as if she 
had been there an hour ago when that last fatal spade-thrust 
loosened the tiny atoms that had so long been impendino-. 
She felt the horrid shock, the sudden blow, the instantaneous 
darkness, the smothering, paralysing weight, the cry of agony, 
muffled and unavailing. 

It was very wonderful that she did not faint and fall. She 
walked straight on towards the group, and stopped when in 


PHCEBE GILMORE’S REMORSE. 


223 


full view of those at work. Some one caught sight of her, and ' 
the crowd turned towards her. A murmur of pity and regret 
broke from tliem ; the poor thing, they cried, while some of 
the women ran towards her, and some of them shrank away. 
They surrounded her, but she pushed them off and tried to 
make her way up to the bank. 

“ Keep her back,” cried one of the foremost men, in a 
voice harsh and hoarse with feeling ; and the women drew her 
back and forced her to stand quietly in their midst. She was 
too weak to resist, and she stood supported by the arms of two 
or three of them in full sight of the desperate workers. Her 
face was grey and drawn into strong, sharpened lines; her eyes 
were fixed and staring. It was a scene of intense and painful 
interest ; none the less striking and terrible that the sleeping 
fields and bright autumn woods beyond were lying under a 
brilliant sky, and that a glorious flood of sunshine was bathing 
the whole place. The contrast of this outward quiet and the 
horrible knowledge possessed by every mind, was most affecting; 
the dreadful struggle for life, the death-pangs of two strong 
men, the living anguish of those from whom they were torn 
away, made the sunshine a most painful sight — a sight that 
added to the picture its most vivid touches. 

The men worked with resolve and desperation ; the sweat 
poured from their set and frowning faces ; the great cords stood 
out on their bared arms; -there was no word spoken between 
them, as one relieved the other and stood by for a few moments 
to recover strength. A boy held a bucket of water and silently 
dipped cupful after cupful to those who fell back exhausted 
to give place to fresher hands. There were more men than 
spades, and more spades than could be used upon the space 
denoted by the freshly-opened sand, so that many had to stand 
and watch while the few worked and the fewer still directed. 
There were children staring with frightened looks, women 
crying and wringin.g their hands, and a few standing about the 


224 


PHCEBE Gilmore’s remorse. 

* 

poor wife with silent faces of compassion. The click of the 
spades, the fall of the soft sand, was painfully distinct through 
the occasional whisper of the women and ejaculations of the 
men. At last there w^as a smothered exclamation from the 
foremost worker ; a pause of a single second, then a plunge of 
all the spades into the yielding sand, a silence that seemed 
to choke the breath, a low murmur of some feeling that she 
could not understand, as she saw them throw away their spades 
and bend down anxiously. The crowd pressed nearer, the men 
cried harshly to them to keep back ; the boy’s bucket of water 
was in demand ; the foremost ordered the outside ones to move 
back and give them air ; the crowd hardly breathed with the 
intensity of their excitement. 

At last the men in front rose up and shook their heads, and 
sorrowfully took up their spades again. 

All this while Phoebe had been struggling with her keepers ; 
at last she burst from them and pressed forward through a 
crowd that could not but give way at sight of her, up to where 
the body lay. It was not Richard, it was his brother ; she did 
not glance again at him, but fixed her eyes upon the bank where 
the men were hard at w’ork, though with less heart, alas, this 
time. 

Meanwhile the women and some of the men gathered round 
the lifeless body, unwilling yet to give him up. But the noble 
fellow lay face upwards fo the sunshine with such a placid look 
of satisfaction and security, it seemed to mock their eflforts. It 
is no use, they said at last and then drew back and gazed at 
him reverently. Not a bruise or wound about him, only a little 
sand among his grizzled hair and on his working clothes. A 
manly figure, grand in its proportions; an honest face, noble in 
its repose. There was no mark of death about him ; his flesh 
was warm, his limbs fell supple and easy as in life — only — only 
his heart was still, his pulse was gone. The sunshine fell full 
upon him and on the awe-struck groups about him ; his face 


riicEBE Gilmore’s remorse. 


225 


was still and happy as if all the goodness and kindness of hi? 
life were passing in drean?s before him — their faces were pale 
and ghastly at the thought of the death that seemed to have left 
no shadow upon him who had passed through it. 

At last there came another pause among the workers; with 
careful hands they ^dragged out his unfortunate companion and 
placed him beside him on the grass. With a piercing cry 
that rang for days in the ears of those that heard it, Phoebe 
flung herself upon her husband’s lifeless body. The women 
shuddered and hid their faces; the men walked away and tried 
not to hear the agony that rent their hearts with pity. 

Poor little Harry! What had he done to deserve his fate? 
Everything seemed against him. That day and that night ho 
felt as if he were frozen, and were only half-awake after a 
dreadful dream. He was afraid of his dead father ; he was 
afraid of his wild-eyed mother; he was afraid of the solemn- 
faced neighbors ; he was afraid of his own self. He was too 
old to run to his mother to be comforted, or to receive pity 
from any one about him. He was too young to throw off his 
grief and rush into excitement to get rid of it. He did not 
understand it ; he was horror-stricken. The goodness and tender- 
ness of his heart were petrified ; he turned coldly away from his 
mother’s passionate embrace, and repaid with stubborn silence 
the kindness of the neighbors. A heartless boy, an ungrateful 
son, they said; and that awful calamity was a long step down 
in Harry’s downward course. 

And Phoebe, wild with remorse and grief, melting with a ten- 
derness that came too late; widowed in heart ;, hopeless, as far 
as this world went — was it, too, a step downward for her? 
Alas ! -yes. She had cut herself off from all those with whom her 
early religious life had been associated ; she had made it im 
possible for any of them to approach her except her old pastor 
whom the hand of disease alone kept back from her. The bet 
ter feelings of her heart could only have been reached by him, 

10 * 


220 


pHCEBE Gilmore’s remorse. 


but to him she would not go, and he could not come to her. 
The house was full of preachers and exhorters — the leaders of 
her new faith — people with hearts full of goodness, with eyes 
brimming with pity, with lips running over with piety. But it 
all seemed cant to her, used to so different a religious school. 
It was all associated with her perversity and error. She felt 
her heart revolting from them, and they did her little good. 
Her agony was intense ; her nature was wholly beyond theii 
experience and comprehension. In her first moments of dis 
tracted grief, she had felt she could “-curse God and die” — 
curse religion, curse all that she had sinned about, all that had 
failed her in her hour of need. 

People told her she had been a good^wife, and asked her to 
take comfort in that ; and she thought of the honest love she 
had undervalued, the strong influence she had abused, and she 
wished that she were lying dead beside him to whom she had all 
her life been doing evil. They called upon her to repose her faith 
on the Maker whom she had always served, and she thought with 
bitterness of the false service she had rendered and the cruel 
wages with which she was being paid. They told her to trust 
in her Saviour, when her Saviour was but a name to her. She 
did not know His heart;* she had never felt His love; there 
was nothing to trust in there. They exhorted her to repent 
and confess her sins, and she felt that she could hurl the coun- 
sel back into the very face of Heaven and cast herself down and 
die. She had received at the Lord’s hand double for all her 
sins; and when she rose up from the days of her bitter mourn- 
ing, it was with a heart of adamant, sinews and nerves of steel. 


THE ORDEAL. 


227 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE ORDEAL. 

“God— satisfied and Earth — undone.” 

E. B. Beownino. 

Dll. Catherwood liad told the truth about Julian’s illness that 
night. It was not serious ; it was only of a few days’ duration ; 
and though it had its usual effect of making Christine look pale 
and keeping Dr. Catherwood there through one night, and 
bringing him to the house several times a day for the succeed- 
ing week, it did not leave any important results behind it. 
His attacks were gradually lessening in their violence and fre- 
quency as he grew older, and Dr. Catherwood, who never 
looked upon his health as anything but of the most precarious 
nature, was beginning to speak and feel more encouragingly 
about him. It was possible he might yet be a strong man, he 
said ; though looking at the slight, pale, undersized boy, it was 
difficult to see where he grounded his possibility. 

After Julian’s illness was passed, there had come a gap in 
Dr. Catherwood’s visiting at the Parsonage; then Dr. Upham 
had been ill again, and he had been sent for, and now was 
coming every day, at the Doctor’s earnest and specified request. 
Immediately upon Mr. Brockhulst’s resignation, there had been 
an urgent and affectionate appeal to him to resume the charg 
of St. Philip’s. It was pretty generally felt in the congregation 
that they had had enough of the new regime^ and that a return 
to the old ways would be very acceptable to all, The conser- 
vative, substantial men, who had. stood aside during the ascen 


228 


THE ORDEA.L. 


dency of the Sherman faction, now came forward, and the reins 
of government were very gladly put back into their hands. 

Dr. Upham consented to resume his duties if -his health should 
permit; but the fatigue consequent upon the first Sunday’s 
labors proved that it was certainly not equal to it. He still 
hoped to be able to preach once a day, however, aided by a 
clergyman temporarily called in as an assistant. The repose 
that was felt throughout the church at this state of things must 
have been most flattering to Dr. Upham ; his people seemed to 
think it impossible to do too much to make amends for their 
former error ; and all his firmness and discretion were required 
to keep things from sliding back into their former places without 
too vigorous a bound, and thereby reflecting too strongly on his 
predecessor’s course. The music, for instance, under the Rec- 
tor’s strict injunction, continued in the same hands as before. 
The fine organist, who was a terrible expense, having been 
engaged till spring, was still retained, and the class of boys was 
placed under the care of a sober-minded young student of 
divinity, without half Mr. Brockhulst’s talents, but with a very 
good and plodding mind that suited exactly the vocation. 

So the weeks went on, and the time for Christine’s promised 
visit to town was come. She had received several rather 
flighty letters from Madeline, full of contradictions, extravagances, 
and sarcasms, and they only increased her dread of the ordeal. 
Madeline described the life they led as very gay, an exaggera- 
tion of all the doings at the Hill — some excitement everv 
evening, dinner-party, opera, or theatre ; and what would it be 
after the season had begun ? Colonel Steele was a great deal at 
the house, besides all the others who were in the habit of 
coming to the Hill. 

“ Many inquiries after you, my dear ; I’m afraid they’ll turn 
your head with compliments when you come down.” 

Christine had done everything she could to es(‘-ape the 
chance of having her head turned ; but Dr. Upham, fancying 


THE OKDEAL. 


229 


that her reluctance came from leaving him alone, insisted with 
unusual warmth upon the plan, and she had no sufficient excuse 
to offer for refusing to keep the promise that he had made foi 
her. 

It was a soft, hazy November afternoon ; the sky was a faint 
grey, the air was mild, the wind was still. Christine left 
Crescens still busy with her trunk for the journey of to-morrow, 
and throwing her cloak around her, went out for a half-hour of 
quiet in the garden. She went slowly down the long covered 
walk, now strewed thickly with the dead leaves which rustled 
as she moved along ; the vines above were almost bare of 
foliage, but a few bunches of grapes still hanging on them 
scented the air deliciously. The grass-plat looked sere and 
yellow, the shrubbery was nearly leafless, the flower-beds were 
tangled and overgrown, and covered with dead leaves ; by the 
path some artemisias and other late flowers bloomed, but the 
end of the year’s luxuriance and verdure was stamped upon 
the garden ; the soft, mild atmosphere could not deceive. 

Christine sighed as she thought of the departed summer and 
its many pleasures. She felt as if it had been all the youth 
that she should ever know ; with its close had come a know- 
ledge, an awakening, that matured her in an instant. 

“ Duty must be life’s leading star, 

And conscious innocence its rest.” 

She stopped at the end of the long walk beside the drooping 
tree, with the circular bench around its trunk, that in the early 
summer had been such a thick and cool green bower, now naked 
and leafless and dreary, and a verse of Keble’s came mourn- 
idly across her mind : 

“And if the world seem dull and dry ; 

If long and sad thy lonely hours, 

And winds have rent thy sheltering bowers — • 
Bethink thee what thou art and where 
A sinner in a life of care.” 


230 


THE ORDEAL. 


She stood with her hand upon the branch nearest to her, and 
looked into the leafless bower with a sad remembrance of the 
happy hours that she had spent dreaming in it when the sum- 
mer was yet young. Some one else was tjiinking of that time, 
too. Dr. Catherwood, coming down that moment from her 
father’s room, paused at the open door and looked out into the 
garden with a thoughtful, almost a stern face, that softened and 
then darkened again as he caught sight of the figure at the end 
,of the long walk. He thought of that “ all golden afternoon ” 
when he had smoked his fragrant indolent cigar under the 
shade of the now leafless tree, reading “ Evangeline,” with the 
mignonette between its pages, and thinking of the lovely child 
who presently, like a dream, had come fluttering down the 
path to him. He thought of her girlish eagerness, with her 
first note of invitation open in her hand — of the simplicity he 
smiled at then, the misgivings that seemed prophetic now. He 
had felt that note was the first step in the separation that 
must surely come between them. It had given him the first 
warning that his pleasant intercourse with her must some time 
end — that the too charming and unconventional hours he 
passed at the Parsonage were numbered. All this had been 
fulfilled. The summer had brought all the changes in their 
relative positions that he feared. But in one thing he had been 
mistaken. In one thing Christine had been wiser than he. 
The world had not hurt her. Flattery had not touched her 
heart. She had ripened rapidly ; she was a woman now, where 
five months ago she had been but a child. Life had matured 
her, but had not changed her nature. His pretty violet 
breathed still the same sweet woody perfume as when the moss 
imbedded it and the budding forest-'trees hung their fresh shade 
above it. 

He looked down the walk and started forward as if he must 
yield to the impulse to go to her, then checked himself and 
half-turned away. What a contrast was this to the face and 


THE OEDEAL. 


231 


figure that he remembered so well in that early summer sunset i 
As great a contrast as between that clay of rosy, living June, 
and this of dead, grey, still November. The change had not 
come unperceived to him. He had watched the shadow steal- 
ing into her eyes, the color fading from her cheek, but it 
seemed to come more fully to him now in its entirety as she 
stood silent and motionless where then she had stood trembling* 
with young life and happiness. 

He turned back into the house and crossed the hall. She* 
was go'mg to-morrow. When she came back she might be even 
further from him than she was now ; he would go and speak to 
her one moment : perhaps he would say to her what her father 
had asked him to say — discover from her if she looked favor- 
ably upon this suitor who seemed to have distanced all the 
others and to have won for himself some sort of a place with her. 
So he turned back towards the garden — it was not often that 
he wavered so — went down the steps into the path, and ap- 
proached her slowly. 

She did not hear till the leaves at her feet rustled, and 
turning, she saw him standing by her. She changed color 
slightly as he held out his hand. 

“So you are going away to-morrow,” he said, resting his hand 
upon the rough heavy stem of the vine above him. “ I thought 
Mrs. Sherman would get you after all.” 

She merely smiled faintly ; a month ago she would have told 
him she did not want to go, but that her father had insisted. 
Times of confidence were over now. 

“ Miss Madeline has seduced you with her accounts of the 
gay doings, I suppose,” he went on. 

“ Madeline seems to be enjoying herself very much,” Chr’stine 
answered, and then turned towards the house. He walked down 
the path beside her, and as they neared the steps, he said — 

“ Do not go in yet. Let us walk here awhile ; it is gloomy 
in the house.” 


232 


THE OKDEAL. 


“ It is gloomy here, I think,” she said, as in turning to rp 
trace their steps, her eyes wandered over the desolate garden 
and fell upon the naked leafless bovver. Tears involuntarily 
rushed into them as she thought of the summer’s past delights, 
the coming separation, the abiding grief. 

“ You are too young to find autumn gloomy,” said her com- 
panion, seeing the tears she turned her head away to hide. 

“ I am not any longer young,” she had it on her lips to say, 
but she ^ id not speak. 

“You have so much pleasure before you in your life, IJiope,” 
he went on, “you need not regret the passing of one pleasant 
summer. It is only when the pleasant summers lie all in the 
past, and all that is to come is winter, that one has a right to 
talk of gloom.” 

Christine was silent, and he went on presently in a more 
cheerful tone. 

“Your winter, I am sure, promises to be gayer even than 
your summer. Mrs. Clybourne only yesterday was giving me 
a short resume of all that has been going on, and a sort of 
programme of all that was projected for the ensuing month.” 

“ Those things give Madeline more pleasure than they give 
me,” she answered with simplicity. 

“ But they ought to give you pleasure,” he persisted, “ when 
you think how much is done on your account. Mrs. Sherman 
and Col. Steele both desire, above all things, you know, to 
make you happy.” 

There was unconsciously to himself a slight sarcastic coldness 
in his voice as he said this ; at Col. Steele’s name a warm color 
flushed over his companion’s face, which his eye caught in- 
stantly, and his tone did not alter for the better as he con- 
tinued : 

“I am unreasonable, Christine, perhaps, but, as an old 
friend, I have been trying to persuade myself I have some sort 
of a right to ask you about Col. Steele — whether he satisfies 


THE OEDEAL. 


233 


you completely, and whether you mean to give him the happi- 
ness that a great many men will be seeking by and by, if thej 
have not already sought it. 'You are very young, Christine, to 
make up your mind about such a step as this. I wish I know 
you wore not in danger of deceiving yourself about your feel- 
ings in the matter.” 

“Dr. Catherwood,” said his companion, pausing and turning 
towards him as they reached the end of the walk again, “ I 
have something to say to you that will change your fear for 
me. I am not in danger of deceiving myself about my feelings 
for Col. Steele nor for any one else. Whatever might be my 
feelings towards any one who desired to marry me, I could 
have but one decision, could make but one irrevocable an- 
swer.” 

“ I do not understand you,” he said slowly, raising his eyes 
and fixing them upon her. 

“I mean,” she said, speaking in a voice whose agitation 
grew with every word she spoke, “ I mean that I shall never 
marry ; that I am bound by the most solemn oath with which 
one can bind one’s soul, to live unmarried ; that love, real or 
fancied, has nothinof to do with the fate I have before me. If 
I loved with my entire soul, I could not marry ; if affection and 
duty and authority all combined to urge it, I would die before 
I broke my vow. Now, you know wdiy the world ought not 
to be my pleasure ; why I am marked out and diflferent from 
others : why it is my duty never to think of things that other 
women think of.” 

“ Christine !” he exclaimed, in a low tone, while his lips 
g-rew white, “you must explain this to me. I do not know of 
what you talk.” 

“I talk of something of which I hate to think,” she said 
with a shudder ; “ something that I never yet have told to any 
one. I meant to have told you long before, when I told you 
about Julian, but I could not bear to speak of it- -I could not bring 


/ 


284 


THE ORDEAL. 


myself to put it into words. You ought to know. Feihaps 
everybody ought to know ; but I do not want to have to 
tell.” 

She shivered and put her hands for a moment over her face, 
then resolutely conquering her voice, she raised her head, and 
leaning against the grape vine, went on speaking rapidly 
though low, with her eyes on the ground and her head 
verted. 

“I told you what I promised to Helena about Julian : be 
sides that, she made me promise something else. It was only 
an hour before she died; she looked so dreadfully, and the 
room was so dim and so solemn. I was a little girl then, and 
everything solemn frightened me ; and she sent the nurse away 
and I was alone with her. She told me about Julian and 
about his wicked father; and she made me promise on my 
knees, solemnly and in the sight of God, I would never marry 
to lead a wretched life like her, but would live for Julian, and 
would be a mother to him, and to him only, while he lived.” 

There was a silence. Christine did not look up ; but, if she 
had, she would have seen upon her companion’s face a pallor 
that would have terrified her. 

After a few moments, she went on : 

“At first, I did not think much about that part of the pro- 
mise; but since I have been grown up I have seen that it was 
a little hard upon me, and that circumstances might arise that 
would make it very cruel.” 

The way in which she said the words very cruel was inex- 
pressibly pathetic: she said them half involuntarily, as if she 
were trying not to blame her sister even in thought, but as if 
the deep sigh of her heart had breathed itself out in words 
against her will. 

“Cruel !” repeated her companion after a moment, in a voice 
so low and deep and vehement, that she started and looked 
towards him in alarm. “Cruel! The deep damnation of such 


THE OKDEAL. 


235 


an act as that; the appalling thought of such a selfishness! 
Christine, it binds you no more than the wild curse of a maniac 
— it does not touch your soul, poor baby that you were. It is 
as worthless as the brawling of the storm. It leaves you free 
as air.” 

“ I bound myself,” she answered. “ That was not Helena’s 
act; no one can undo it — no one can persuade me: I made 
the vow myself. I made it and I must keep it, if it breaks my 
heart.” 

“You shall not keep it,” he said below his breath, with a 
fierce vehemence of eye. “I will live to see it broken. I 
will undo that treacherous woman’s sin before I die. I will 
save you from her tyranny. I will unloose the hold she has 
upon you with her cold dead cruel hands. She has blighted 
enough lives. She shall not turn yours, too, to bitterness, 
my lamb. You shall not drag out your years in misery for 
my ” 

lie struck his hand upon his forehead and turned away with 
vehement emotion. 

“I hardly know what I have been saying,” he resumed in a 
more controlled tone presently. “ I feel this cruelty, this in- 
justice to you, bitterly, Christine, and I would do anything to 
remedy what has been done against you. I want you to listen 
to me, and believe me when I say, truly, as a Christian man, I 
do not think t.iis promise binds you. It was extorted from you 
under circuiuatances of peculiar trial, when you were a mere 
child ; a mere child in years and judgment — no one but a luna 
tic would think of valuing such a promise. Your father would 
be perfectly right in forcing you to disregard ib” 

“ My father would never force me to a sin as black as that, 
he could not force me to it, for my pi'omise to the dead, made 
in the name of heaven, (omes before any duty to the living. 
Dr. Catherwood, you are saying a great many things that I dc 
not like to hear. You are only driving me away from you by 


230 


THE ORDEAL. 


talking so. Yon do not respect me much if you think to move 
me. I am as firm as if I were a great deal older, and wiser and 
better than I am. Because you have seen me weak so often, 
and because I have been guided by you in so many things, you 
think that I am childish and unstable. I shall be sorry that I 
told you this. I never have told any one before. Does it look 
very childish that I have kept it to myself so long? I would 
have kept it to myself for life if I had not trusted you so 
much.” 

“Christine ! forgive me,” said her companion, tenderly. “It 
was for your sake that I spoke as plainly as I did. I hoped to 
prove to you, you were mistaken in your duty. I pray God I 
may yet be able to convince you that you are. It seems to me 
impossible that in time I cannot make you see it in the way 
I do.” 

“You cannot,” she' answered ; “I was fourteen years old 
when I made that promise. I was more thoughtful and relia- 
ble than most children of that age. I knew what I was doing, 
and I did it with intention. Not one month before, I had taken 
my confirmation vows. I was thought old enough for that. 
I took this in the same spirit, with consciousness of the same 
awful presence. Do not try to convince me of what your own 
heart cannot be convinced. The faithful keeping of this 
promise has become the intention of my life. If I broke it 
now, I would bo breaking the added resolutions all the days 
that have passed since it was made. Do not, if }^uu are indeed 
my friend, add any to the weight I have to bear. Forget what 
I have told you. Never breathe it to my father, for you violate 
my confidence if you do. Do not speak of it again to me, and 
forget it if you can yourself.” 

“ If I can,” he repeated under his breath, then turning to her 
in a pleading way, he said: “Dear Christine! let me say this 
to you, let me remind you of one thing. By keeping religious 
ly the letter of the promise, you make suffering for ^others be- 


THE OEDEAL. 


237 


sides yourself. By keeping the spirit of it, you can satisfy 
your own conscience, and serve Julian as well.” 

“ And affront heaven with a lie. No, Dr. Catherwood, you 
cannot make me do that wickedness. I know God will not let 
me fall so terribly. I am sure of strength, I think.” 

“Listen, Christine. You arc looking at this only in a morbid 
w'ay. You have kept it a dark secret in your heart so long, 
you do not know how it looks by daylight. Let me tell you 
hovv it looks to me — to me — a man mature in years, temperate 
in judgment, by the grace of God, a Christian.” 

“ No, Dr. Catherwood, do not tell me. Lknow all that you 
would say, but my mind cannot change. You must not talk 
to me about it.” 

“But, Christine, think of this. I know your father’s dearest 
earthly wish is to see you married safely before he is called to 
leave you.” 

“ My father will trust me when I tell him I am safer without 
being married,” she returned quickly, and with a change of 
tone. That sentence of her companion’s brought back memory 
of painful t-imes. 

“Yes, he may submit, but he wdll be pained and disappoint- 
ed. I know how great a dread it is to him to leave you unpro- 
tected.” 

“God, perhaps, will leave him longer than you think; and 
after that, duty is my best protection.” 

“But he will not see it so; you will inflict a pang on him, 
and on the — the man whose happiness depends upon your love, 
Christine.” ^ 

“ There is no one whose happiness depends on that,” she re- 
turned. “The man the world has chosen for me. Dr. Cather- 
wood, would never have my love, even if I were at liberty to 
marry him.” 

“Then you do not love this Colonel Steele?” he said, fixing 
a sudden and piercing glance upon her face. 


238 


THE ORDEAL. 


“You know I do not,” she exclaimed almost bitterly, turning 
suddenly to leave him. He caught her hand and drew her 
hack. 

“ Christine ! ” he said, in a low, smothered voice. “ Look at 
me ! Honestly — and tell me from your heart — if there is no 
one else for whom you repent you made that vow 

3he had started to leave him, but he held her hand, and she 
turned her face around and their eyes met ; one moment, the 
only one in life, fate said, in which they might look into each 
other’s eyes and read the truth ; one long, long draught of love 
from the depths of each other’s souls. 

If any other love tale and any other fate had been Chris- 
tine’s, she would have listened with downcast eyes, with trem- 
bling blushes, with averted face ; but now, despairing, yearning, 
tearless, she lifted her head and gazed with deep, passionate, 
loving eyes, into eyes as deep, as loving, more passionate than 
hers. O the desolate garden ! The still, grey, mournful sky! 
The falling faded leaves 1 What a strange pair of lovers stood 
in the midst of that silent gloom, despairing, dumb. Knowing 
for the first time the full bliss of loving ; knowing at the same 
time the certainty of parting; the cup just at their lips to be 
struck aside — 

“ Like water spilled upon the plain 
Not to be gathered up again.” 

The whole capacity of their souls for happiness, the whole satis- 
faction of each in the other’s love, the future that had been 
possible, the desolation that was now inevitable — all these, with 
all their contingent and attendant circumstances, with all their 
wealth of light, and depth of shade, crowded and filled the 
moments that they stood thus hand in hand under the mourn 
ful autumn sky. 

The acknowledgment of a passion is in one sense its birth ; 
till it has been spoken, it is not full, living, real ; this passion, 
as it woke to life, dealt death to those in whose hearts it was 


THE ORDEAL. 


2Sd 

Dorn. A perfect love, a true marriage of souls, thwarted and 
blasted and denied for over its completion. No wonder that, 
man and woman loving thus, thus joined by God in soul, they 
felt in all its strength the cruelty and malice of the human 
selfishness that had put them asunder for their earthly lives. 

“ There is no hope,” Christine said at last, in a low, unnatural 
dead voice. Her companion did not speak, did not attempt 
any sort of a rejoinder. At that moment the shrill tones of a 
child reached them from the house, calling petulantly her name. 

“ I must go,” she said; he shivered as the child’s, voice met 
his ear, and unclasping her hand, without a word let her go 
from him. He did not even watch her till she disappeared into 
the house ; he turned away, and stood dumb and motion.csa 
with his eyes upon the ground. 


240 


HELENA’S WOItK. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Helena’s work. 

'* Shall I not weep, my heartstrings torn, 

My flower of love that falls half blown, 

My youth uncrowned, my life forlorn, 

A thorny path to walk alone I ” 

IIOLMKS. 

Chmsttnb went directly up the stairs, and past the room wliore 
Julian w^as calling for her petulantly. For the first time in her 
life she did not answer him, did not hurry to find out his de- 
mand, but went towards her own room, and shut herself in, 
and then threw herself upon the bed, with an audible cry of 
wretchedness. She clasped her nands above ner forehead — 
unclasped them, rose, and walked about the room. 

The room began to feel to her like a prison, and she opened 
the window and knelt down by it, and leaned her head forward 
to catch the air. But the pine-trees before the house grew 
close up against the window, and still she felt that she should 
smother. Oh, what had she done to deserve this ! Why was 
she born to such a fate ? Why had she not died like the other 
children, who lay so still and safe there in the churchyard ? 
Not like her to live to be old, and grey, and dull, to live years 
and years in a misery that never would grow old. Not like 
her to hate life as she looked ahead, to hate life as she looked 
back. Not like her to feel a bitter reproach against the dead, 
a yearning, hopeless love towards the living, who to her must 
be for ever dead. 

O cruel sister — O selfish mother’s love to which she had 
been sacrificed. Helena’s livid, ghastly face rose up before her 


HELENA’S WORK. 


241 


and she reproached it in her misery, defied it in her despair. 
She had often wondered, as she used to watch long silent nights 
by Julian’s bed, whether Helena knew, whether the spirit of 
the mother was not near her, blessing her for keeping faith with 
her, watching with her by her child’s sick bed. She wondered 
now if she were near; she felt the air close and thick and 
heavy, as the dusk came on, and she shivered with the thought 
that her spirit might be even now within hearing of her 
broken words, within touch of her throbbing, feverish brow. 
She hoped she was there — seeing the wreck she had made, 
knowing the blight her cruelty had brought. She had no 
right to be sleeping calm and still, while she, the little girl 
upon whom she had laid her monstrous burden, was struggling 
and fainting, and gasping beneath its weight. Oh, she had done 
a base thing to her motherless little sister! She had bade her 
keep it a secret from her father; she had done well ; what 
would his generous nature not have felt at such a selfish act ! 
Oh, she prayed God Helena might know — might feel — might 
see ; quick and dead were alike to her to-night, head and 
heart burning up in the tortures of her new agony. She could 
not fear the dead, for she longed for death itself, she craved it 
passionately. She did not see how she possibly could live and 
bear this pain. But she knew that she should, and that made 
it what it was. 

Life as it would be to her, and life as it might have been ! 
Her innocent and pure mind had never, till that moment of 
awakening, pictured to itself the happiness of married love, the 
only earthly happiness that is worth ihe name. It seemed as 
if earth had suddenly flowered into a paradise, and then the 
gates had been shut upon her, and she had been left, dreary 
and alone, in the waste without. A thousand powers of love, 
a thousand new perceptions, new emotions awoke within her, to 
turn now only to her further pain. Before, she had only half- 
lived — half-understood herself— half-known the things about 
11 


242 


HELENA’S WORK. 


her ; now, this strange necromancy had struck the scaffolding 
Away, and all things stood revealed. Behold the mysteries of 
her nature! Behold its infinite capacity for happiness — iU 
'nfinite capacity for suffering ! If she had never known the 
possibility of this bliss ; if her whole nature had not been so 
suddenly developed, she might have passed on through her 
appointed years unjoyously but unrepiningly, with the simpli 
ity of childhood and the patience of faith, not knowing tha 
a great wrong had been done her ; a deep cruelty ; a shameful 
injustice. 

And not only to her, but to the one whose love for her was 
as much a part of his life, his existence, as hers was for him. 
What he suffered I Every pang was doubled at the thought of 
him, as every joy would have been doubled if joy had been 
their destiny. For herself she felt agony ; for him she felt re- 
bellion. AVhat had he done to be sacrificed to this selfish 
mother — he, a stranger, bound to her in no earthly way ? 
Then she thought of how Helena had injured her child by her 
selfish, avaricious, greedy requisitions. She pictured to herself 
the home in which he would have been guarded and cherished ; 
the manly gentleness and judgment by which his course would 
have been directed ; the strong arm by which his youth w'ould have 
been protected. Now, he had lost all that. What could he be 
but an object of aversion to the one in whose path of happiness 
he stood ? What would his future be, with only her guidance 
and protection? Already he was beyond her control ; already she 
felt her weakness and insufficiency ; and if they said truly, even 
the help her father gave her must soon be gone. 

The money for which she had been so exacting, could do 
hem both little good when there was no one to take care of it. 
A lawless boy, with reckless habits, and the knowledge that he 
had a right to money, what could there be to save him from 
destruction ? Oh, the life that she saw stretching before her 
along the desolate, aimless years — cold, grey, cheeiless — change 


HELENA’S WORK. 


243 


coming upon all but her — her young companions w’th babies 
in their arms, with happy fireside interests, with love to 
lighten duty ; Julian growing up out of her reach — careless of 
her affection ; her father gone ; her home desolate and lonely ; 
her life a long regret, a smothered, unquenched, smouldering 
rebellion. 

She passed through years of suffering as she lay there alon 
in the thick, dull twilight, pressing her hot hands against her 
burning forehead, and moaning aloud sometimes in her intole- 
rable pain. Through the darkness and the stillness of the 
house, at last she heard her father’s voice calling to her from across 
the hall. For the first time in her life^ she heard that summons 
with impatience and answered it with tardy and unwilling 
steps. She arose slowly, and pushing back her hair, exclaimed, 
with reluctant despair : “ 0 heavens ! cannot they let me alone 
to-night !” 

She felt, as she washed the tears off from her cheeks, smoothed 
her dress, and opening her door, went out into the light, that 
she had taken her first step in the long journey that lay before 
her, hiding the anguish of her soul, and for duty and for pride 
wearing on her face a serenity that would deceive. 


244 


ONLY A MONTH. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

ONLY A MONTH. 

** "Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve. 

And hope without an object cannot live.” 

CoLEEIDGE. 

After Christine had gone away to the city, Dr. Catherwood 
did not come near the Parsonage for several days : then he was 
sent for on some plea of illness in the household, and after that 
he came every day, and stayed long, and left with a homesick, 
heartsick regret each time. It was an effort to him to go when 
he was first obliged to, after his parting with Christine: he 
dreaded acutely going into the house again ; but that once over, 
he found his greatest consolation there. He would spend hours 
in Dr. XJpham’s room; then coming down, he would go into the 
parlor — walk through the room where everything recalled her 
— open her books, and glance through them for some trace of 
her in them, lift the lid of her work-box, touch the work that 
had passed through her hands, and look long and hungrily 
upon the little picture of her that hung beneath her mother’s ; 
a mere sketch, a soft shadow, a sweet thought of Christine, but 
inestimably precious. To not even that had he a claim. That 
little picture, hanging there obscurely month after month, at- 
tracting the eyes and thoughts of no one in the household 
probably, of interest to no one, of value only in a possible ex- 
tremity, even that he could not ask for; even that he must 
count the moments of looking at without betraying feeling. 
His course he had not yet decided on : at first he had felt he 
had strength for nothing but to go away from her ; he felt it 


ONLY A MONTH. 


245 


would be imp^ossible for him to live uear her and not make her 
wretched, and he loved her too generously to be willing to 
sacrifice her peace to his craving desire to look upon her face 
and touch her hand sometimes. He felt that for himself there 
was nothing but gloom ahead — but for her, with her youth, her 
sw(;etness of heart, her marvellous religious faith, there might 
be a future of peace and satisfaction. So at first he meant to 
go — to separate himself for ever from her, — to meet her eyes 
never again on earth ; to trouble her peace no more. To pray 
and make the prayer honest by his efforts, that she might for- 
get him and be contented with her lot. 

But longer thought and more complicated reasoning brought 
him nearly to an opposite conclusion, and it was a long while 
before he knew whether he were listening to reason or yielding 
to a selfish and tempting love. How could he leave her, 
he reasoned, so unprotected, in such a trying life? Her father 
he watched with secret and growing apprehension : his active 
life was ended ; he might linger a helpless invalid for years, or 
his death might occur at any moment. Julian was a charge to 
which he was unequal now — the care of his property would 
soon have to pass into other hands : upon his young daughter 
would come the heavy weight of both, and the insufficiency of 
lier strength for either seemed to him an honest reason for 
staying where he could relieve her of them, and make her 
path an easier one. These doubts and waverings tormented 
him, a man used to clear and rapid habits of thought, and 
definite in all his plans. An illness that Julian had while Chris- 
tine was still away, settled the «iisgivings, and he resolved to 
stay. He was certain he comprehended the boy’s ailments as no 
one else did, and as no one else could, could relieve Christine’s 
mind of the alarm she always felt about him. A sentence in 
her letter to her father written after hearing that he had been 
ill, settled his mind about it : 

“ I could not stav ^'cre as 1 do, but for your assurance that 


246 


ONLY A MONTH. 


Dr. Catlicrwood is constantly witb Julian, and apprehends 
nothing worse. While he is with him, I am willing to do as 
you ask me to, and prolong my absence.” 

Christine’s absence was prolonged a month ; her father, lonely 
as he would have been without Dr. Catherwood, still urged her 
staying, and felt great satisfaction in the thought that she was 
happy. But his satisfaction lasted only till he saw her. Not 
very apt to study. the faces of those around him, he could not 
help being struck with the change in his daughter’s. She was 
not the same Christine who had gone away from him, he was 
sure ; and he watched her with a tender solicitude, while she 
struggled bravely to keep up a cheerful manner. 

But it was like a fresh wound, to come back to her quiet 
unchanged home again, and to know that the long journey was 
only shorter by one month than when she went away. She 
had passed through such interminably long days since then, 
had had such terrible experience in trying to make the conquest 
of herself, that she was utterly disheartened to find herself no 
further advanced in any way. She missed the excitement of 
city life, which, though thoroughly distasteful* to her, had been 
a stimulant; and without it, she found she had no strength at 
all. The stillness of the house, the length of the uneventful 
hours, the monotony of the slowly rolling days, — was it possi- 
ble she could live and bear them. The care of Julian, and her 
attendance on her father, seemed no help in those early days of 
her untoward fate. She could put no heart in what she did, 
and hers was a nature that though capable of great sacrifices 
for duty, was weak and lifelest when working only for that cold 
task-master. 

Besides, the blow had fallen on body as well as on mind 
she was literally only half alive. Mrs. Sherman had been glaa 
to send her home at last, for she felt she was on the eve of 
some alarming illness. The Excitement of getting home kept 
her up for a day or two : then a feverish flush on her checki 


ONLY A MONTH. 


247 


at night gave place to a ghastly white in the morning, aid Dr. 
Upham took alarm. 

It was the fourth day of her return to : through the 

morning she had been with him in his study; but after dinner 
she had excused herself and gone away to her own room. Five 
o’clock came, and Christine had not come to him, and, a good 
deal disturbed by her unnatural appearance in the morning, her 
father concluded to go to her room and see how she was feeling 
It was only across the hall, on the front side of the house. But 
it was some weeks since the old man had been beyond his own 
apartment, and he wrapped his dressing-gown about him and 
went out with a cautious step into the dim and chilly hall. 
Christine’s door was standing ajar ; he pushed it softly open and 
entered. She lay upon the bed, with her face upon her arms, 
a burning flush on her cheeks, and a troubled dark look in her 
eyes. 

“Christine, my child,” he said gently, standing before her; 
and when she saw him she gave a violent start and tried to 
sit up. 

“ Christine, you are ill ; you make me quite uneasy. What 
is the matter with you ?” 

She tried to answer him in a reassuring way, but sank back 
on the pillow faint and dizzy from her eflbrt. He put his hand 
on her forehead, and without waiting for any further answer, 
started towards the door, saying half aloud, “ I should have sent 
for him this morning.” 

“ Father,” cried Christine, starting up in fright ; but her voice 
was too weak : he had reached the door before she could com- 
mand strength enough to arrest his attention. She attempted 
to rise and follow him ; but the hurry, the agitation, were loo 
much for her, and she fell back on the bed, breathless and pah 
pitating. She heard her father call to Ann, heard Ann’s light 
step down the stairs, the closing of the door, and the message 
to Dr. Catherwood was on its way. 


248 


ONLY A MONTH. 


How should she meet him ! Oh, what a cruel mistake Lei 
father was making! This was enough to drive her into an ill- 
ness if she were not ill already. The hot fever seemed rushing 
through her veins with double fire ; the beating of her heart 
sounded so loud to her, she could hear nothing else. In a little 
while — it might have been half an hour, it might have been five 
minutes — Crescens came in softly with a light, and shading it, 
placed it on a table in the furthest corner. As she was going 
out, Christine motioned to her not to go away. The woman 
raised her sulky eyebrows as she moved slowly across the room, 
and taking out her work sat down by the shaded light. Chris- 
tine hardly knew why she wanted her to stay, only she was ter- 
rified at herself — she dared not be alone when he came — she 
could not trust herself or him. Oh, she hoped he would not 
come ; she had never seen him since that day ; she was so mise- 
rable, she could not bear the meeting now. Perhaps he would 
refuse to come — would feel as she did, and know what she was 
suffering from. 

But no. By and by came Ann^s step into the hall, followed 
in a moment more by a quicker one that she knew as well upon 
the walk outside, and then the opening and shutting of the 
door. Christine listened to the footsteps on the stair, their 
pause at the study door, the long parley between her father and 
the new comer ; and then she knew that he was coming in 
alone. The room was very dim. The low lamp with its thick 
shade made it almost twilight where the bed stood, with its 
white curtain swept back, and its pillows crushed and disar- 
ranged by the feverish aching head that had tossed about upon 
them. There were queer shadows on the ceiling; Crescens 
A'ith her back to the door, looked, reflected dimly on it, like a 
giantess stooping over her pile of work. 

Dr. Catherwood paused a moment in the open door* then 
entering, quietly went up to the bed, and laid his hand upon 
Christine’s. For the moment of suspense before he spoke, she 


ONLY A MONTH. 


249 


neither saw nor comprehended. She felt that he was there, but 
turmoil was in her brain, a giddy rushing in her pulses. But 
when he spoke, there was something in his even quiet voice 
that cut through the mists like a steady stream of light, that 
made a terra firma for her to stand upon. It is impossible to 
describe all that that tone expressed — it told of a battle fought 
and gained, of a course decided on, a place for both of them, a 
new life inaugurated, a quiet putting down of passion and tak- 
ing up of fate. She felt that she had to do nothing but follow ; 
that he had resolved what was best for them both, and that she 
need only obey his lead. She need no more harass her poor 
.mind with the choice of paths before her ; he had mastered 
himself and all the difficulties of their relations, and would walk 
on before her silently and with authority. All this his voice 
expressed — a voice as steady and firm as if emotion had never 
shaken it, as if a heart of fire were not burning beneath it, a 
soul of yearning tenderness were not throbbing tumultuously 
against it. But no accent, no tremble of what was within, 
found expression through it ; not the faintest vibration of the 
tempest shook it. He sat down beside her, with his cool steady 
hand on hers, and said: 

“ I am afraid you are really ill. Why did you not send for 
me before ? Your pulse is altogether wrong.” 

She gave a sigh of relief and turned her face towards the light. 

“You have a good deal of fever,” he went on, “and should 
have given up long ago. I want you now to keep perfectly 
quiet. I will give Crescens all directions about your medicine, 
60 do not trouble yourself to think at all. ' Let her undress you 
now. I am going into your father’s room, and if you are not 
comfortable and likely to sleep, before bed-time she will let me 
know.” 

“Very well,” she answered simply, without looking towards 
him, and with a few words more, he rose and went over to 
Crescens. 


11 * 


250 


ONLY A MONTH. 


Christine watched him as he stood by the dim light, talking 
with the woman in a tone too low for her to hear. She felt no 
longer agitation and alarm ; a great weight was gone from her 
mind. She felt not the least care of herself or the least anxiety 
about the future. Her brain felt dull and heavy, but her heart 
beat even and slow, and she only thought of rest and sleep. If 
the hand upon her wrist had had the least tremble in it, the 
work he was trying to do would have been undone, and fatally 
undone perhaps. But he was a strong man, and had himself 
well in hand. Not one of all the household guessed, through 
the long weeks of suspense that followed that night, that theii 
anxiety, compared with his, was but a trifling and unmeaning 
sentiment ; that his whole life lay in the chances of which ho 
talked so coolly ; that night and day he had no rest from the 
gnawing agony, till the shadow of death passed away from the 
still face in that dark room, and the warm life crept slowly back 
into the chilly faint pulses he had counted and weighed his 
hopes upon so long. 


MADELINE AND GHKISTINE. 


25] 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 

I am half sick of shadows, said 

The Lady of ShaUot.” 

Tenntsov 

“ O who can dare complain 
When God sends a new duty, 

To comfort each new pain ? ” 

A. Pboctoe. 

Three years and a half have passed since then, and the Parson- 
age garden is again in bloom, the hawthorn is again shedding 
its blossoms down on Christine’s head as she walks there alone, 
the birds are merry in every branch, the air is full of the smell 
of the early flowers of summer, and “ all is vernal rapture as 
of old.” 

Not quite as of old, though, it all seemed and sounded to 
Christine. The songs of the birds sometimes “ minded her o’ 
the happy days” too much to make them very merry; tho 
sight and smell of the returning flowers gave her no longer a 
thrill of young delight, only a soft and quiet sense of pleasure. 
The garden, with its old-fashioned beds, its sheltered walks, 
was more to her now than it had ever been ; it was quieter 
than the house; no one came there but herself and the old 
o^ardener. Julian never set his foot in it; he was far beyond 
boyhood and playtime now, and spent as little of his time a 
home as he could decently arrange. The Rector was never 
out of the house in these days, rarely out of his study ; so 
Christine had the garden to herself. 

She was walking there, this afternoon, with a thoughtful 


252 


MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 


face, up and down slowly in the shade, sometimes reading, 
sometimes looking far off at vacancy. She was dressed in 
white, as she used to dress, with the same delicacy, the same 
grace of style. But if her beauty had depended on her youth, 
it would have been gone now. She looked more than three 
years older ; she had almost lost the peculiar round ness and 
freshness of girlhood ; few people would have noticed her now 
for her beauty, though the best part of it still remained to her. 
There was not a shadow of discontent about her face, not one 
bitter and impatient thought had left its trace behind, only 
there was a deep thoughtfulness always, a wistful regret some- 
times. She seemed almost painfully mature for one but little 
over twenty; people looked twice, and wondered what her 
actual age was. 

But in her life there was not much time left for repining and 
regret. Quiet as it was, it was strong with motives and objects. 
She had an intention, and she was living it out. Julian first 
of all ; then her father, then herself. For Julian she was living, 
and every day brought its disappointment, but she did not give 
up. The care of her father was a sweet care, and his tender- 
ness repaid her doubly every day. For herself, she had taken 
the inward resolution, which so few women ever take, of making 
the most of her mind, perfecting and developing it as much as 
possible. She had been driven to this, because she saw what 
life was before her, and recognised the necessity of having as 
many resources in it as possible. Many women waste fine 
powers of mind, because they have no definite life for which to 
prepare themselves ; they do not know what is going to be re- 
quired of them ; nobody talks to them of their minds after they 
leave school ; it is all wonder and excitement then, waiting for 
the turn of the wheel that is to dispose of them ; the precious 
moments go by, the desire for improvement is weakened, all 
steady pursuits are interrupted, and frivolity of purpose is suc- 
ceeded by discontent and a craving for excitement. And 


MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 


253 


women go dragging through lives, in which they have need of 
all their strength, only half developed ; creatures of emotion, 
and not creatures of reason, fit companions neither for them- 
selves, if the wheel of fortune has nothing for them, nor for the 
men who choose them for their pretty faces. It is a startling 
thought, how little we use of what is given to us, how grossly 
we see through eyes we might refine to keenest delicacy ; how 
weakly we grasp at what effort would place within our reach, 
how much beauty goes unnoticed, how much happiness lies 
untouched, what wonders lie unread, what 'strength sleeps un- 
exerted. Childhood reigns dark in the mind ; circumstances 
develop the heart, and the heart suffers without its help and 
strength : suffers, sometimes, for errors of judgment and ill- 
devised plans of life, which its proper cultivation could have 
completely obviated. 

And Christine had learned to find pleasure and strength in 
study, after the keenness of her sorrow had passed away. She 
had studied, first, to make herself companionable to Julian, and 
to assist him in his detested lessons, and afterwards she had 
gone on for her own sake when she discovered what a strength 
and solace it became. Her desire for self-improvement was 
an astonishment and pleasure to her father ; he was never tired 
of watching the progress that she made. And now that all 
the duties of mistress of the house came upon her, she needed 
to be very much* matured. 

The Parsonage had always been an hospitable house. Not 
only the clergy, but many of her father’s early friends, men in 
high position and of extended information/ from neighboring 
cities, visited intimately there. Intercourse with men of infor- 
mation and cultivation was very improving to her; having no 
coquetry or desire for admiration, she was able to profit in the 
fullest manner by what they said, and entered into conversation 
with men of all ages with an unembarrassed grace and simpli- 
city that is very rare among women of her years. The result 


254 


MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 


was, she received a homage the most delicate and flattering ; 
she became the admired companion of her father’s older friends 
— the truest and most elevating influence of the younger men 
whom sometimes she met. She was so peculiarly womanly, so 
pure-minded, so simple, and yet so appreciative, she was like a 
revelation to many of them, used principally to women think- 
ing about themselves. More than one loved her with more 
than friendship — but a hopeless love for such a woman is better 
than the heart of an inferior one. 

And “ the little Upham girl,” frightened and pale and flutter- 
ing only a few years ago, was fast becoming an influence in the 
parish. She was taking the place that her poor mother left 
vacant by her early death so long ago. She was winning the 
hearts of all ; and by her fine tact and admirable judgment, was 
bringing order slowly and imperceptibly out of the wild confu- 
sion in which the parish had been plunged by Mrs. Sherman’s 
interference. She had more system than most of the older 
women, and much more quiet sense than any of the younger 
ones ; and without their knowing anything about it, and hardly 
knowing it herself, she was doing them a vast deal of good, and 
making a revolution in St. Philip’s. All this without the least 
appearance of authority or prominence, and without creating a 
suspicion in the minds of the most critical, that she had any 
claims at all to being “ a superior woman.” She did not parade 
her bookish tastes, nor her clear views about parish matters. 
She listened very deferentially to her seniors, who liked her for 
her respectful manner, and acted on her suggestions without 
knowing to whom they were indebted for them. 

This pleasant June afternoon, as she walked up and down 
the shady path, she was reading a very learned book in a very 
learned language, and she gave a little start when she heard 
her name called from the house, and saw some one coming 
down the steps, and threw the book upon the seat below the 
grape vine. She was a little ashamed of it, it must be confessed, 


MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 


255 


for it was a new attempt, quite a launch, in fact, upon the 
ocean of letters, and she was somewhat doubtful whether she 
had any right to go so far from shore. She turned towards the 
intruder with a little flush on her cheek, and gave a cry of 
pleasure when she saw that it was Madeline. The two young 
women ran to meet each other with the enthusiasm of their 
sex, and kissed each other several times before anything sensi- 
ble was said. 

“ When did you come ?” at last Christine asked, as her 
friend held her off for a moment to look at her, and see what 
ravages had been made by time during the six months which 
had elapsed since they had seen each other. 

“ This morning,’* said Madeline. “ I left mothnr in the 
midst of the unpacking, and came over to see you to get a little 
.rest. I have all the summer before me to unpack. What is 
the Use of rushing into it at once ! But, Christine, how well 
you look ! Pretty, if I may be permitted to be candid, and 
youngei by two years than I do. This city life is wearing me 
out, my dear. I do not feel worth anything when I come home 
in the spring. Every year I resolve 1*11 stay at home a winter 
and try to knit up the ravelled sleeve ! But, so it goes. I get 
so tired of the country before autumn, not all the king’s horses, 
nor all the king’s men, could keep me in it through the winter. 
It’s a wonderful thing for the complexion ; you look like a clear 
white rose, but rather thin, Christine. Dear, dear ! ” holding 
up her hand, “ so clear and transparent of hue you might have 
seen the moon shine through.” 

“ It would need to be a vigorous moon,” said Christine, put- 
ting her hand out of sight under her friend’s. “ Tell me what 
sort of a winter you have had, and what has happened to you.” 

“Nothing has happened,” she replied in a tone of ennui, 
“that makes the winter pleasant to remember. The same 
people, the same routine, gaiety repeated till it is dulness, 
excitement multiplied till it is tameness. But do not talk about 


256 


MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 


it, ; I told you I came here to be rested, and to hear of some* 
thing different. How is your father — how are the parish chih 
dren — what have you been reading ? Christine, sometimes I 
think the happiest and healthiest hours of my life are those I 
spend with you in this dear old house. I think of them in 
town, sometimes, and they rest me even to remember.” 

Christine had the tact not to read her friend a lecture in her 
present mood, so she gave her hand a little caress at these last 
words, and began in a pleasant, piquant way, to sketch out 
home affairs. She felt even more tenderness than usual for 
Madeline, for she saw an exaggeration of the ordinary discon- 
tent and restlessness with which she eame back from town. 

Madeline was not happy : people said that who saw her in 
society ; her heart was empty ; her time filled only with frivo- 
lity ; her mind wasted upon trifles, of which she felt the insigy 
nificance. The lord of her heart had not come ; society was 
full of men as tired of it as she was herself. They flirted with 
her to excite themselves and consume the time, and she accept- 
ed their devotion ; because devotion she must have, and there 
was no one else to give it. There were very few marrying men 
in the fashionable world just then ; the few there were, were 
kept away by those by whom she was surrounded, and who gave 
her the appearance of being undignified and easily amused. Ma- 
deline despised the men with whom she talked and danced and 
rode. She felt herself superior to them ; and in the familiar inter- 
course of daily meetings, she grew accustomed to treating them 
with an ease and carelessness that injured her with the more 
refined and exacting part of the world. The men themselves 
knew that she felt no regard for them, and that they would 
have been terribly punished if they had gone beyond the limits 
that she set them ; but her carelessness and indifference made 
her less attractive in their eyes, and they sought her principally 
because she was handsome and danced well, and was clever 
enough to* save them the effort of sustaining conversation 


MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 25V 

They knew that she endured them because she was tenacioui 
of her reputation as a belle, and because their attentions w'ert 
necessary to her; and she felt this, w’ith a terrible injury to hei 
self-respect, and with an impatience that was not always im- 
proving to her dignity of manner. 

Many a night when she came home ennuyee and heart-sore, 
she cried out with bitter tears, that it was a life she hated ; that 
if she did not get out of it, she should go mad. But there 
seemed no way to get out of it. Things at home'were misera- 
bly entangled. Little by little the income of the year had been 
anticipated, till there were debts ahead. Raymond’s habits 
were growing worse, and every year more was demanded to 
keep him from disgrace. Susie and her husband had got very 
much behindhand ; their place was heavily mortgaged, and 
there was an apprehension every year that it would have to go, 
and that the whole seven would come upon the cottage. Ma- 
deline saw her mother was harassed and miserable ; she felt 
the full burden of her cares and apprehensions, and she saw no 
way out of the entanglement, but the one which she was ex- 
pected to open with her beauty and her cleverness. 

Her beauty! She hated it, and she felt it going from her 
with a fierce disdain. It had done her no good — only led her 
into a false and trying situation. And her talents; she had 
better have been without them, and then she would not have 
rebelled so bitterly against her fate. She saw silly, simpering 
girls marrying advantageously every day, and she decided that 
a woman who is brought up to aarry well had better have as 
little brain as will get her respectab'y through society. Made- 
line saw too far ; felt too much ; reid the world too quickly ; 
people did not love her for it. After the first draught, she lost 
her pleasure in society ; for the society in which she moved 
was the most hollow and the least thoughtful in the great me- 
tropolis. She longed to shake off all connexion with it— to 
leave it for the quiet pleasures which Christine pursued. But 


258 


MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 


how could that be done ? Never with her mother’s sanction 
never without a struggle for which sbe had not the strength. 

Sometimes, in her passionate moments, she resolved to do it. 
to save her self-respect and dignity, and to strive to solve the 
entanglements at home in some other way than the way for which 
she had been educated. But how ? Madeline had very clear 
good, common-sense, and she counted over her resources with 
stinging self-contempt. There was her music ; well, she knew 
just enough about music to be able to do nothing with it : she 
had been brilliantly and superficially taught, and had had need 
of all her talent to cover her want of actual knowledge. Then 
she had quixotic schemes for teaching, but they only lasted till 
she refiected that she knew nothing, and had no education 
worth the name, and that she lived in a country where clever 
New England girls, with we.* trained minds and well directed 
energies, were starving daily upon salaries that were insufficient 
even for their compact wants. 

So, after all the tempests, often and often recurring, it came 
down to this, that she went back into the old life again 
with the shadow of the conflict darkening her face, and 
the tumult of it hardly quiet in her heart, to do the same 
things, to meet the same people, and to hope for the same 
result. 

Raymond, never too delicate, was already beginning to say. 
Mad. had no time to lose. Many of her young companions 
were married ; of them none had had the beauty and the pro- 
mise that she had had ; and none had more needed the advan- 
tages of a w'ealthy marriage. Mrs. Sherman, after all, had 
been of veiy little advantage to her ; the particular people said, 
quite a disadvantage. Mrs. Sherman was very gay — very 
fashionable ; everybody visited her, but everybody did not 
respect her. She had a reputation for match-making, which 
made most men afraid of her, and the better sort of young 
women shy of being considered on her staflf. She always had 


MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 


259 


Madeline with her ; some severe persons said she had proposed 
her to every man in town. The sort of men whom she had 
about her were not the men who married handsome girls with 
out anything in the way of money. 

Col. Steele had been much the best of the lot, much more 
than an average specimen. He had now been married more 
than two years to a plain hut sensible heiress, and was living in 
very good style upon her money, and now cut the Sherman 
clique entirely as ioo ‘prononce and dashing for a family man of his 
substantial claims. Sometimes he came up and talked to Ma- 
deline a little at parties, referring to “ old times ” in a patron- 
izing way that enraged her and made her feel as if she were 
an octagenarian. He asked always about his pretty little 
friend, the minister’s daughter, and wondered that she had 
“ never married ” in such a good-natured and indifferent man- 
ner, it quite shook Madeline’s belief in his former devotion 
to her. 

For the last two winters, the cottage had been shut up, and 
Mrs. Clybourne, feeling keenly all that depended on the campaign, 
had taken the field in person. She had attempted to withdraw 
Madeline quietly from Mrs. Sherman ; but, alas! it was not 
easily done. She had already been classified in society, and no 
one would have forgotten that she had been in a fast set, if she 
had grown as tame as little Kichfield herself. Besides, it was 
difficult to dispense with Mrs. Sherman’s carriage and opera-box ; 
it was next to impossible to fight the battle without that brazen 
veteran to rally the scattering ranks. For younger girls were 
coming forward, and Madeline, now four years before the world, 
was not the star that she had been at seventeen. A wearing 
and exciting life had made serious inroads on her beauty, and at 
twenty-one she had no longer the look of fresh ness, that belongs 
rightly to tliat age. She knew a great deal cf the world — a 
great deal too mudi ; she knew little of politics, for she was not 
among men who cared for politics. Intellectually, she was re- 


260 


MADELINE AND CHEISTINE. 


trograding, for she had lost the habit of study, and fonni it 
harder work than she had patience for, to regain what she had 
lost. She kept up with the easy essay literature of the day, 
and that was all. She felt always that she really knew nothing ; 
and when in the society of men and women of higher and 
more cultivated tastes, she had recourse to a frivolous and sar- 
castic sort of conversation to keep them from sounding her on 
points she felt she was not capable of meeting. 

And in her religious life she was prospering no better than in 
her intellectual life. Her first experience had shaken her confi- 
dence in herself; she had discovered her motives so mixed, her 
enthusiasm so ill-judged, she felt a disgust for herself and a 
dread of another self-deception. She never remembered the 
days when she had first believed in religion and duty and self-sacri- 
fice, without remembering the folly and the disappointment that 
had succeeded them. She tried to obliterate them altogether, 
and to drown the shame of having been deceived in the pride 
of having proved herself superior in the end. She laughed at 
what her heart still yearned for ; she envied those who could 
believe in what she had rendered herself incapable of believing. 

She was unpopular among the people of who had seen 

her grow up among them, and had felt a good deal of pride in 
her early beauty. Their society she found altogether too tame, 
and the only excitement she could get out of it was in the at- 
tempt to astonish them, and to provoke comment by her daring 
and unconventional manners. The mother saw ail this, but she 
saw it too late. What Madeline was she had made her : great 
beauty, fine powers of mind, strong and tender feelings — al' 
these materials she had had in her hands to work with, and 
here was the result that she had brought about. She tried to 
Btifie these thoughts, and to convince herself that all was not 
lost. There was no such thing as turning back, ajid the only 
hope, she said, was in going forward and Jiardcning herself 
against regret. Sometimes though, the thought could not be 


MADELINE AND CIIKISTINE. 


261 


kept back, that Madeline would have been happier if she had not 
been thwarted in that first unwise fancy of hers. The young 
clergyman had made a name for himself ; and wiser and humbler 
and as earnest as at first, had earned a position that Madeline 
need not have blushed to share. Of course it would not have 
filled the measure of the mother’s former ambition ; but any- 
thing, she thought bitterly, would have been better than to see 
her child thus miserably unsatisfied and restless, fast losing the 
beauty that had gained her her position in society, heart-sore 
and embittered by her aimless life. She heard now with interest 
of Mr. Brockhulst’s success, and the eclat that accompanied his 
career ; and a sort of hope occasionally crossed her mind, that 
he had not forgotten Madeline, and might some time come back 
and renew his suit. AVhat a downfall of ambition the exist- 
ence of that same hope expressed ! 

And Madeline could not help listening when she heard his 
name, and feeling a sort of jealous pride in his success, though 
she was bitter against herself for feeling it, and tried to con- 
vince herself that she did not care. It had, unconsciously to 
herself, something to do with her interest in the Parsonage, and 
her eagerness to see Christine and to hear from her. That very 
afternoon, before she bad been half an hour in the garden with 
her, she had asked carelessly, and with a strong touch of her 
habitual sarcasm, whether anything had been heard lately oi 
their ecclesiastical Don Quixote. Christine had answered “ No,” 
and Madeline had found herself more ennuyce and restless than 
before. 


2C2 


woo’d and makkied and a’. 


CHAPTEE XXXV. 

“wooed and married and a.’” 

“ You have too much respect upon the world ; 

They lose it that do buy it with much care.” 

Meb. of Venice.- Act i. Scent t. 

But Madeline was to bear somethino: more of her old lovci 
before the day was over. A servant came down the path and 
said that a lady was waiting in the parlor. 

“The misery of it !” cried Madeline, as she glanced at the 
card. “That little Richfield was my dread before she was mar- 
ried, but now, I think she must be appalling.” 

“ Almost,” whispered Christine, with a little shudder and a 
laugh, as they went towards the house. 

The little Richfield was married, and the little Richfield had 
a baby, and had fallen quite naturally intx) the error of suppos- 
ing that these two facts were of as engrossing interest to the 
public as they were to herself. She was fortunate in having a 
very good husband, who was not ashamed of her, and who 
thought her an average woman, made priceless and inestimable 
by being converted into his wife. He gave her plenty of money 
and told her to please herself in everything ; and the little wo- 
man, convinced that the world was standing still to watch her, 
tried very hard to obey him and to please herself in everything 
Her baby had more clothes bought for him than any previous 

baby in had ever had. A mass of lace and cambric, he 

was daily promenaded in the arms of his nurse or driven in his 
mamma’s pretty carriage, the envy no doubt of all the babies 


woo’d and married and a’. 


263 


who had their little chins tied up in woollen hoods, and laughed 
and crowed over their fourteen-year-old nurses’ shoulders, or 
were dragged about the pavement in little wicker waggons, 
tucked ill with blanket shawls. He was sent to see every one 
whom his mamma desired especially to honor ; and that family 
must have been fatally cut off from favor, of whom the little 
matron could say with significant firmness, “I have determine 
not to send baby there again.” 

Her thoughts circled consequently in rather narrow limits, 
and her conversation took no wider range. Servants’ faults and 
babies’ troubles were the principal themes, varied a little by the 
goodness and devotion of some husbands, and the unsatisfactory 
nature of others, the comfort of having plenty of money, and 
the impossibility of living without it. She was naturally ag- 
gravating to all less fortunate people, and Madeline went into 
the parlor sorely against her will. 

Little Mrs. Dean had on a soft pretty French bonnet and 
several very elegant articles of dress, and really seemed 
almost handsome, overflowing with happiness, and looking all 
the mother whenever her eyes rested on her baby. Madeline 
sat silent and scornful while she chattered on. Christine, with 
fortunate tact, appeared to listen and sympathize, while she w’as 
really very much ashamed of her, and was truly anxious to get 
her into more sensible ways. She bad a real tenderness for the 
pretty baby, though, and she took him in her arms with a mur- 
mur of sweet words. 

Him will ever go to mademoiselle,” said the French nurse 
admiringly, as the beautiful boy laughed in Christine’s face and 
stretched out his arms towards her. 

At this moment Dr. Catherwood came up the piazza steps 
and paused unperceived, at the entrance of the hall. Through 
the open door he saw the group within, and as he looked, his 
face grew clouded and his mouth grew stern. Christine with 
a baby in her arms, a dimpled, rosy baby — looking down at it 


204 


woo’d and married and a’. 


with a wistful tender face, murmuring to it soft, low words ; it 
was a hard thing for him to see. 

Madeline sat aloof with an ungentle face, answering care 
lessly the chatter of the young mother who was beside her, the 
nurse was engrossed in smoothing out and folding up a beauti- 
ful India shawl that had served for a wrapper to the priceless 
baby, Christine had him for the moment to herself, and sh 
stood opposite the door, the soft white mass of baby clothes 
mixing with her own soft white drapery, a lovely, lovely picture. 
She bent her graceful head a little and looked into his face, 
holding one of his pretty hands against her cheek. 

The expression of her eyes none saw but the new-comer, 
himself unseen : it was a deep yearning hungry look of fond- 
ness. He pressed his lips together and walked across the 
piazza with a heavy tread. 

The sound of his steps roused those within. Christine hastily 
put the baby back into the nurse’s arms, Madeline sprang up to 
speak to him, most glad to be relieved of her companion, who 
immediately remembered that she wanted him to look at the 
child’s teeth, which he had not seen since morning. So the 
Doctor entered with his usual easy smile, the baby welcomed 
him with a crowing, cooing noise, while the old Rector, bent and 
thin, came in slowly from another door. Raymond a moment 
after sauntered up the steps, and the quiet old parlor was soon 
full of pleasant voices and faces. The baby was, of course, the 
centre of interest ; the mamma insisted on putting him in Dr. 
Upham’s arms and asking him to kiss him ; then Raymond in- 
sisted on taking him into his arms and tossing him up to the 
ceiling : then Dr. Catherwood must look at his teeth, and 
Madeline must notice the embroidery on his cloak, and Chris- 
tine must hold him for a moment to see if he were not heavier 
than he was last week. 

It was very pretty and amusing, for the baby was royally 
benignant and gracious, and the little mother was so happy it 


woo’d and MAPIRIED AND a’. 


265 


was impossible to be out of patience with her: even Madeline 
softened somewhat towards her, till by an unfortunate allusion to 
the fair of three years ago, she brought up the contrast in their 
positions too strongly. Madeline thought bitterly of that day 
when she and Christine had queened it so grandly among the less 
favored beauties, when little Richfield had moped all the after- 
noon behind her pincushions and tidies, and all the evening 
beside the folding doors. 

“ By the way,” said Raymond, in his lounging way, stopping 
to make eyes at the baby between every word — “ by the way, 
I’ve heard a piece of news to-day.” 

“ A piece of news ?” cried Madeline, with animation. “ Let 
the child alone and tell us what it is.” 

“ An engagement ?” asked the baby’s mother, suspending her 
caresses for a moment. 

“More than an engagement,” he returned, “a step further.” 

“ A marriage ! Oh who, Raymond ? Don’t be hateful.” 

“ Couldn’t be hateful if I tried, my dear. ’Tis not my nature 
to — but I’ll excuse you for being so impatient, for it’s an old 
flame of yours who’s married ” — 

“ That is not being very definite,” said Dr. Catherwood. 

“Not Jack Leslie?” questioned Madeline, with interest. 

“No, nor any of that set — somebody very different, my 
dear, a horse of another color. Nobody less than your friend 
the parson — poor Brockhulst, whom you used to punish so. 
For my part I’m glad enough to hear it. If he had perished in 
a decline you know it would have been on your conscience.” 

“ Mr. Brockhulst married !” exclaimed little Mrs. Dean. 
“Well, Maddy, I always thought he was a flirt.” 

“ Pray, what sort of a ehoice has he made ?” asked Christine, 
looking furtively towards Madeline as she tied the baby’s cloak. 
Madeline was sitting very still, clasping and unclasping a brace- 
let on her arm : she tried to speak, her lips moved a little, but 
the words did not come. Her face was pallid ; it was fortunate 

12 


266 


woo’d AlfD MAKRIED ATfD A’. 


the sun was down and there was so little light in the room. 
Christine, in rather a hurried way, went on questioning Ray- 
mond and drawing attention from his sister’s silence. 

“ Why, he’s chosen a saint this trme — he’s one who always 
goes to the extremes, you know — a pale sickly little thing who 
never does anything but say her prayers and teach ragged 
schools. I met her once last summer at the Livermores’, to 
whom she is related : I acknowledge she appalled me. But 
then, it’s proper to say she was as much afraid of me, and 
turned very white and looked the other way whenever I said 
anything to her. In that way we did not become very inti- 
mate, — but I can testify she is a saint of the worst kind, and I 
think Brockhulst has done well : they will be translated some 
fine day together, there is not enough of either of them to die.” 

“ Well, I am very glad to hear that he is married,” said Dr. 
Upham ; “ I am sure he will be happier.” 

“That depends a good deal upon the sort of woman he has 
married,” said Mrs. Dean sententiously. “ A man puts his 
happiness very much in his wife’s hands.” 

“ Oh, I have no doubt he has chosen wisely,” said Christine, 
anxious not to make Madeline speak. “ He is at an age to 
marry more to please his judgment than his fancy. He will 
make his wife happy, too, I have no doubt.” 

“ Oh, yes ; they are as well suited as any two disembodied 
spirits possibly can be,” said Raymond, whistling to the baby 
and holding out his watch chain. “ Livermore says they went 
directly to the Denver Hospital after the ceremony, by way of a 
wedding tour, and that they never see each other but once all day 
long, and that is at a convivial meal consisting of bread and 
jvater, which lasts just eight minutes by the clock.” 

“ Livermore is good authority,” said Dr. Catherwood. “ I 
never heard yet of his telling the truth by any accident.” 

“Take care; he’s a friend of Madeline’s,” said the brother 
‘ Mad., it’s time we were going home.” 


woo’d and married and a’. 2C7 

‘‘Yes,” said Madeline, getting up and speaking as if she had 
just escaped from nightmare ; “ I am ready ; come.” 

“ Stay with me,” said Christine affectionately ; “ you have 
been away so long.” 

“ No ; I had better go,” she returned. “ Where did I leave 
my hat and parasol ?” 

Christine went out with her into the garden where she had 
left them. As they came back towards the house, Madelines 
broke the silence by saying, in a low, cold voice : 

“Christine, I suppose that you have concluded that I loved 
that man. Do not be uneasy ; I shall not break my heart.” 

“ No, Madeline ; I do not fear that you will break it, but 
that you will harden it, which is far worse.” 

“ Spare yourself; it has been adamant ever since I have been 
a woman. It hasn’t a natural or a human feeling in it. It is 
a piece of workmanship that I never understood, and for which 
I do not hold myself responsible. Stop : I don’t want any 
sympathy ; I am quite beyond all that, you know. You might 
as well harangue one of those grave-stones over there. Good 
by. Go in and tell Raymond I am ready for him ; I don’t 
want to be half an hour saying good night to that silly woman, 
and kissing her tiresome baby.” 

Christine gave a sigh, kissed her friend, and sent Raymond 
out to her to the gate. 

“ It seems to me,” said Mrs. Dean, . as she fastened the lasj; 
.oop in the baby’s cloak and sent the nurse to call the carriage, 
“it seems to me that Madeline is out of spirits. She is really 
changed in every way.” 

“ She is tired and ill to-day,” said Christine quickly ; “ she 
has been unpacking all the morning; she wants rest after hei 
winter of excitement.” 

“ It is a great pity she has not married,” returned the com 
placent little wife. “ She never will be happy till she does.” 

“ I don’t know about that,” Christine answered rather insia 
cerely, as she went down the steps and watched them drive away 


268 


SUSPICIONS, 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

SUSPICIONS. 

“ For it is with feelings as with waters, 

The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb.” 

That evening Dr. TJpham was not so well, possibly owing tc 
the excitement of seeing so many visitors in the afternoon, 
Ann went down for Dr. Catherwood, who was out, but who 
came up about nine o’clock. Christine left him with her father, 
and took her work to the parlor lamp and sat silently by it for 
an hour. Her eyes were troubled, and they wandered off her 
work very often, and more than once she arose, walked to the 
window, and listened very anxiously. Twice the gate opened, 
and she quickly resumed her place, banished the care from her 
brow, and looked up ready to greet the new comer cheerfully. 
But it was only a servant with some message and a trifling in- 
vitation, and in the silence that ensued, the anxiety came back 
redoubled. 

Eleven o’clock struck — half-past — and still the gate did not 
open again. Christine pressed her lips together, and tried to 
keep back the sudden tears that came with the sound of the 
striking clock. She was not new to these vigils ; Julian was 
no longer a child whom Crescens drove to bed at the bayonet’s 
point, but a great overgrown lad of seventeen, who scorned 
Christine as he did Cresceus, and who considered that he owed 
allegiance and submission to no living mortal. His grandfather 
could only counsel — his aunt could only sue; the youth had 
long since taken the bit between his teeth and was going pell* 
mell to destruction. 


SUSPICIONS. 


269 


All the evil in him, and there had always been more evil in 
him than in any other child of Adam, had flowered out into 
luxurious growth within these last three years. He was not 
even a polite young villain ; he was a loafer, a tavern lounger, 
a hard drinker, a rough swearer. Ilis tastes led him to the 
lowest haunts, and he brought away from them their enduring 
brand. 

He had outgrown the aristocratic look of his childhood. 
He was still handsome, strikingly so ; but it was the lowest 
and least pleasing form of beauty; his eye was not only keen 
and cold as it had always been, it had an evil brightness that 
made Christina shudder; and his mouth, the baby mouth that 
she had kissed a thousand times with almost a mother’s fond- 
ness, had lost its childish beauty, and expressed all the sinful 
passions of which his eyes showed the knowledge. 

The first awakening to this fact, the first startling discovery 
of the impurity and boldness of the boy, had been the worst 
part of her trial. For a long time she had felt the distance 
growing between them, had known that ho was becoming more 
than ever, something that she could not understand; but when 
the first palpable, unmistakable proof came that he had fallen, 
she had her burst of grief, her agony of disappointment, and 
then she rose and went forward bearing her burden with silent 
fortitude. She did whatever -she could devise to make the 
house attractive to him; she invited those of his own age 
there, and made it bright and cheerful with young girls and 
mnsic and pleasure, but, alas ! pleasure in which innocence and 
purity could share was not pleasure to him ; he showed his 
contempt and distaste without reserve, and Christine gave up 
er stratagems with a sigh. To her father she never dared 
disclose the full extent of his wrong-doing, but he knew enough 
to be bowed down with sorrow. Remonstrance, warning, 
counsel, only seemed to harden him ; Christine had ceased to 
speak to him about his evil courses, and met him with mannera 


270 


SUSPICIONS. 


simple, affectionate, and free from all reproach She could only 
do this for him ; he should ever meet truth and purity at home ; 
he should always find forbearance and tenderness waiting for 
him there, whenever he would come for it. 

The little town had not had such a promising scandal in it 
since poor Helena’s time. The boy was talked of in all circles, 
and the worst made of his faults. There were many versions 
of his treatment at home. Some said he never was reproved 
nor warned ; others said that he had been cast off entirely, and 
that his grandfather never saw him. Some were dissatisfied 
with the leniency manifested towards him ; others were dis- 
edified by the harshness with which report said he was treated. 
In no case were the Rector and his daughter considered to be 
doing right, and Christine was not wrong in feeling that Julian’s 
course was undoing all that her father’s blameless life and her 
own self-sacrifice would have done to lead the world to believe 
in the Christianity that they professed. 

Dr. Catherwood was the only one who acted at all as a 
restraint to Julian; he had no longer any influence with him 
that went deep enough to promise any good result. He had 
given up the hope of changing him ; he saw the disease had 
struck too deep a root ; he only trusted to hold him so in check 
as to prevent his total ruin now. If one germ of self-respect could 
be left alive there was a chance that, his mad boyhood past, it 
might develop into something healthy. Julian hated him, and 
appeared to revolt from his interference more than from any 
other ; but in his presence he was subdued, and to his directions, 
even when absent from him, he paid, under protest, a sort of 
grudging and ungracious regard. Christine wondered at this, 
and so did all others who were much about him ; Dr. Cather 
wood had no hold over him, such as his aunt or his grandfather 
might be supposed to have, from their power to supply him 
with money or to withhold it from him. He had no authority 
as a guardian, no influence as a benefactor, for such a claim the 


SUSPICIONS. 


271 


boy would have scouted ; but he nevertheless kept Lira iu awe 
of his displeasure, and by the mere force of his determination 
hold him, absent and present, under something like restraint. 

To him Christine had always gone when she was in per- 
plexity about her duty, and the boy soon found Dr. Gather 
wood knew fully his plans and purposes and resources, and had his 
eye forever on him ; no revel so secret, no companion so sly, but 
Dr. Catherwood knew fully all that could be known about them 
A larger portion of his time than Christine suspected was consumed 
in this surveillance ; he was well known and much dreaded in 
all the haunts of vice with which the growing town abounded, 
and to his resolution and sharp management it was owing that 
Julian long ago was not openly disgraced. The men whose 
business it was to tempt and destroy the youths whom they 
could get within their influence, stood in some awe of this 
acute and determined guardian, and were rather shy of connect- 
ing themselves in any way with Julian’s mad career. 

Dr. Catherwood grew older and sterner-looking ; he did not 
lose his genial and sympathetic manner when in the world, but 
when silent and by himself the change was very visible. No 
one had cause to say that he was altered, because towards 
them he was the same. No sufferer was the poorer for the 
withdrawal of his sympathy, no home where he was useful 
could complain of his estrangement ; but towards himself, in his 
inner life, he was solitary, stern, and gloomy. To meet him 
driving alone out on some distant country road, absorbed in his 
own thoughts, with knit brow and stern lips, one would have 
said, that is a man too full of trouble and perplexity to do the 
world much service. But the sudden softening of the hard- 
drawn lines, the warmth of the fine smile at the sight of a 
well known face, or the call to some act of kindness, would 
dissipate the image of the self-absorbed misanthropist, and 
place in its stead that of the genial, honest-hearted man of 
feeling. Ilis self-control was beyond praise ; his power of self 


272 


SUSPICIONS. 


forgetfulness beyond precedent ; Christine looked at him with 
secret wonder, questioning if he had forgotten, if he were 
reconciled to what he had so boldly rebelled against at first. 

The thought filled her with jealous misery, and then brought 
bitter penitence. Had she not hoped and prayed he might for- 
get and learn another happiness ? But she had not believed that 
it was possible ; she felt rebellion when she found that it had 
come to pass. And her manner had a coldness and a deadness 
in it when they were together that had the effect of making 
him believe she had outgrown the youthful passion that her 
eyes betrayed on that November afternoon in the old garden. 
He almost doubted, as he recalled the scene, whether his own 
passion had not colored all he saw of her emotion. What had 
she said ? How had she betrayed the love that he had allowed 
himself to believe in ? She was so young, so impressionable, 
had he not mistaken her emotion at learning his feelings to- 
wards her, for a depth of affection she never meant to express ? 
He could not believe that one so young could have made the 
conquest that she had made ; in his heart he thought her cold 
and passionless, as she believed him indifferent and forgetful. 
So true it is that no hearts, however true, can bear the test of 
rigid silence and suppression. Interviews now were painful, 
and rarely sought for by either one of them. 

But that evening, as Christine waited for Julian in the parlor, 
she resolved to speak to Dr. Catherwood as he came down 
from her father’s room. She heard the door above close, and 
Dr. Catherwood’s step upon the stairs, and she felt the sort of 
throb that she used to feel in those old, old days at the same 
sound. A feeling of self-reproach chilled her voice and manner 
as she went forward to the door and spoke to him. He follow- 
ed her into the room and sat down at the table, holding his hat 
in his hand, and waiting for her to say why she had called him 

“You find my father weak, I fear, to-night I” she said, dread- 
ing to come to what she had in mind. 


SUSPICIONS. 


273 


“Why, no; not particularly. I cannot see that he loses- 
strength, though these little attacks depress him very much.” 

“ I am very glad to hear you say so. I always fear I cannot 
judge.” 

There was a pause, and then Christine went on, with an effort,- 
and abruptly : “Dr. Catherwood, is this thing to go on? Julian 
has not been home since yesterday.” 

Dr. Catherwood looked up thoughtfully. “ I do not see any 
help for its going on. I have weighed a great many plans in 
my mind, and I do not find that any of them will answer. The 
evil is in the «hild. To send him away will only be to give 
him a larger theatre; to put him under stricter rule at home, 
will only serve to add fresh stimulus to his vicious determination. 
The only hope for him, it seems to me, is to guard him from 
any open and notorious disgrace, and to act as if there were 
something good in him that had not been brought out. - I 
need not say, do not lose your faith in him ; you will cherish 
a spark of that, I know, long beyond any other being. But 
his ruin is accomplished when that dies ; many a man has 
been saved by the faith of some woman in him, which has sur- 
vived his evil life and at last revived his own. It is, it has long 
been, my care to save the boy from disgrace before the world ; 
it lies with you to keep in his sight the fact that there is purity 
and affection for him in his home. We can do nothing more 
for him that I can see. Cease to perplex yourself about his 
whereabouts. You know I am never ignorant of them. I 
know where he is to-night ; where he has been since yesterday. 
My eye is never oflf him. His personal safety I can satisfy you 
of; of his moral safety you can judge as well as I.” 

“ It is my only relief to know this,” said Christine, the tears 
swimming for a moment in her eyes. “You may think me 
childish to have doubted it for an instant, and required re- 
assurance. But something has come to my knowledge that has 
given me alarm. Did you know Harry Gilmore had come back ?” 

12 * 


274 


SUSPICIONS. 


“ No,” said her companion. “ How have you ascertained 
this ?” 

“ By a note that Julian carelessly mislaid, and the idea of 
his being here would have given me uneasiness enough if the 
note had not been what it is.” 

She took a crumpled piece of paper from her work-box and 
gave it to Dr. Catherwood, who read it with a thoughtful face, 
Christine watched him anxiously ; she might have saved her- 
self the trouble ; nothing that Dr. Catherwood chose to conceal 
ever expressed itself upon his features. He chose to conceal 
the alarm that her announcement gave hnn, and that the read- 
ing of the note increased ; and Christine only saw him serious 
and deliberate, as he always was when he talked of Julian. 

But there was cause for uneasiness to-night; Harry Gilmore, 
sent off a year ago on some suspicion of his honesty, was here 
again — recalled evidently by Julian, as the note seemed to indi- 
cate. Dr. Catherwood had always felt that there was more 
that he was glad not to know in that entanglement of Harry’s. 
He had done all he could to hush the matter up, and to get 
Harry quietly away ; he felt that all the disgrace was not light- 
ing where it was deserved ; the miller’s boy was again shielding 
his more fortunate accomplice. But what could he do? It 
was not rendering justice to Harry to ruin Julian, too; and by 
quieting the matter, even at a heav)’^ expense to himself, he was 
saving Harry from the punishment of lavv. But here was the 
young reprobate returned — to be the keener Julian’s tool again, 
no doubt. What did it mean ? There was no time to lose. 
Dr. Catherwood rose, and trying to disguise his impatience to 
be away, was saying good-night to his companion with an 
unhurried manner, when the gate opened and Julian’s quick 
light step ran up to the piazza. He glanced in at the half- 
open window, paused, and then entering the hall-door, came 
resolutely into the parlor. Christine felt amazed. This was 
so d^fFercnt from his ordinary way of skulking up to his own 


SUSPICIONS. 


21b 


room without a word to any one, when he had stayed away a 
length of time that challenged comment. 

He looked very pale, and his voice was not quite steady 
when he spoke, though his manner was an effort at more non- 
chalance than ordinary. He was haggard, and his dress was 
careless ; Christine felt the repugnance that the sight of him 
always now called forth, succeeded by the instinctive yearning 
and pity that no change in him could overpower. Dr. Gather 
wood addressed him simply and commonplacely, with not very 
much kindness in his tone and with some latent authority, 
Julian showed ordinarily very little of the bully in Dr. Gather- 
wood’s presence, but to-night he made a faint effort at it. He 
threw himself upon a sofa, and passing his hand through his 
still beautiful golden hair, curling short upon his forehead, 
exclaimed : 

“ I’m tired beyond anything I ever felt. I’ve been oflf all 
day trouting in the brooks back of Negley’s farm, a good eight 
miles’ tramp there before sunrise and back since dark. Ross 
went with me ; I stayed all night with him to have our tackle 
ready and be off betimes.” 

“ Well, and what luck had you?” 

Dr. Catherwood’s tone had nothing exactly sceptical in it, 
but it had the effect of disconcerting Julian very much. He 
changed color, caught his breath, looked down, and tried to 
answer with indifference. 

“ Rather poor luck, I’m afraid ; that is, I think, I — I — 
should call it poor. I gave Ross the fish ; I didn’t bring any 
home.” 

It was so unusual for Julian to give any account of himself 
that Ghristine listened in surprise, sharing in Dr. Gatherwood’ 
suspicions, and yet half-angry with him for confusing and dis 
concerting the boy so. Dr. Gatherwood’s manner to him 
latterly had provoked her, though she felt fully the necessity 
of his knowing there was some one he could not deceive. In 


276 


susnciONS. 


this trying position Dr. Cathcrwood had consented to stand to 
him, his hated mentor, his keen-eyed and uncompromising 
judge ; interfering where it seemed he had no business to inter- 
fere, and detested in proportion as his authority was disputed. 
Christine ought to have felt, and did feel grateful, but she often 
found herself feeling that he was hard on Julian — that no one 
had any business to suspeot — what she knew but too well. It 
was the true mother instinct ; how she came by it would have 
been diflScult to explain. 

When Julian next spoke, it was with a nervous desire to 
break the silence, and further to establish his whereabouts 
through the day and night just past. Dr. Cathcrwood only 
listened, without a word of comment, and after a moment 
turned to go, bidding good-night to Christine, and saying to 
Julian as he passed him, “Come to my office about ten to- 
morrow morning, will you ? I would like to see you a few 
moments.” 

Julian winced at the invitation, but did not dare to offer any 
dissent from it; he said he would come, and then after Dr. 
Catherwood had left the house, threw himself back again on the 
sofa, and with a smothered passion begged Christine to tell 
him what right that man had to order him about to please 
himself. 

“ I did not know he did order you about,” said Christine, 
coldly, angry now at Julian for his disrespect to Dr. Cather- 
wood. 

“ Didn’t he order me to be at his office to-morrow at ten 
o’clock?” he said, impatiently — “and don’t he give me as many 
orders in the course of a month as if I were his slave ?” 

“ Why do you obey them, then ?” asked Christine, abruptly, 
looking at him steadily. 

He uttered a half-inaudible oath, and walked impatiently about 
the. room, 

“By heavens, he’ll find I’ll not do it much longer!” he raut 


SUSPICIONS. 


277 


tered ; “to-morrow’s the last day he’ll have me dancing attend- 
ance on him at his office, the — the^ — ” 

“Julian, no more of that,” said Christine, with a manner of 
determination. “ You know as well as I do what you owe to 
Dr. Catherwood, and though at heart you are ungrateful, at 
least you shall be outwardly respectful before me and in this 
house, where from a child he has watched over you and cared 
for you as no one but the best friend could have done. I firmly 
believe you would never have come out of some of those terrible 
illnesses, Julian, but for him.” 

“I wish I never had come out of them,” cried Julian, with a 
momentary spasm of some strong remorse as he plunged his 
face in his hands and shook all over. “I wish to heaven he 
had let me die.” 

“Julian, for your poor mother’s sake ” 

“ What do I care for my poor mother ! I owe it to her that I 
was born, and to him that I am not dead. A curse upon them 
both ” 

“Julian !” exclaimed Christine with a shudder, sinking back 
and covering her face. 

The boy gave a contemptuous laugh as he raised his head, 
and shaking back his curls, strode across the room. “Does 
that shock you so ! Why, that gentleman in the Old Testa- 
ment that we hear so much about when we go to church like 
good children to be told about our duty, used to curse right 
and left about the day that he was born, and the people that 
had anything to do with his coming into the world. I used to 
think it rather queerish when I was a little fellow, but since 
I’ve come to man’s estate I don’t wonder half so much at Job’s 
breach of the commandment. Zounds!” he continued, in a 
lighter tone, “but I feel like swearing roundly every morning 
when the time comes to get up, and every night when there’s 
no way of getting off from going to bed. It’s all a deuced 
bore, Christine. Where shall I find a candle?” 


278 


SUSPICIONS. 


Christine did not look up or speak to him. He glanced back 
at her a little anxiously as he left the room, and paused when 
half across the hall, evidencing an intention of going back to 
counteract the serious impression that his first passionate words 
had made upon her. His face grew more haggard when he 
was out of the sight of any one; he looked, as he stood alone 
in the hall with the candle in his hand, debating whether ho 
should go back and undo the mischief he had done himself by 
his burst of remorse, like a beautiful fallen spirit — his beauty 
was so great, its marring so dark and awful. The cunning and 
dangerous expression of his eyes, the worn and anxious lines 
about his mouth, could not disguise his youth ; his skin "vvas 
exquisitely fair, his features perfect in their outline, his hair 
was like a golden glory round his head. 

“ Shall I go back,” he said to himself, glancing in stealthily 
to the room where Christine sat motionless, “ and risk over- 
doing it, and putting it into her head that I am frightened at 
letting myself out so? She is so terribly acute there’s no 
getting ahead of her at an ordinary pace. No ; I’d better let 
it go and trust that she’ll forget it. Fool ! I’d give my head 
if I had held my tongue.” 

And with another dissatisfied glance back, he went slowly up 
the stairs and shut himself into his rooms. 


HAEBY DOES NOT COME HOME. 


270 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

HARRY DOES NOT COME HOME. 

“ If the stone strikes against the earthen jar, woe to the jar ; and if the jar strikes 
against the stone, woe not the less to the jar.” 

Spanish Pbovkbb. 

Ph(ebe Gilmore had sat waiting hour after hour that same 
night for Harry, with feelings not unlike Christine’s as she sat 
waiting hour after hour for Julian. Phoebe’s home was no 
longer the cottage by the mill-dam where the vines shut out 
the sunlight from the windows, and the rush of the water cooled 
the air and soothed the ear, but the old tumble-down house 
next the blacksmith’s, just beyond the town, where Old Hun- 
dred had spent his fifty honest and contented years. It had 
grown more tumble-down and rickety since Phoebe had come 
into it. No one had hired the shed ; Old Hundred’s custom had 
gone to smiths more in the town, and no one was found to lease 
or purchase the good-will and fixtures of the undesirable place. 
The old man had left no will ; his little property had been divided 
among his “ heirs,” and all that was left as Harry’s portion 
was an interest in this old house, for which a purchaser had 
not been found, and in which Phoebe had permission to live till 
one, turned up. It was a wretched, starving life she led, work- 
ing hard with her needle, while Harry was loafing shiftlessly 
about the town. Phoebe had given up the Methodists, and 
they said the hand of Providence was in her troubles. She 
had not come back to the Church, and the Church people said 
she could not have expected any different result. Her better 
neighbors were giving her up, and her poorer ones were begin- 


280 


HAREY DOES NOT COME HOME. 


ning to hold themselves above her, and she felt every man’a 
hand against her and her boy. The worldly people told her 
she had ruined him by the way she had brought him up, and 
the pious people told her she would have his perdition on her 
soul for ever ; and she despised and defied them all, and yearned 
and groaned in secret over the lad, and cursed the day in 
vhich he and she were born. 

Yes, she had ruined him ; yes, if he were in eternal peril, 
she alone would be held to answer for it. She knew it, and 
she defied the wrath of heaven and the scorn of men. Harry 
hated his home ; he shrank from his mother’s alternate upbraid- 
ings and fierce, tiger-like bursts of caressing and remorse. He 
felt the pinching poverty and the continual gloom too oppressive 
for his only half-deadened conscience, and the sight of his 
mother’s trouble too painful for his tender heart; for Harry 
had a tender heart, and so went all the farther and surer 
wrong when once he tried to smother it and get the upper 
hand with it. 

Julian Upham had been his continual associate till the trou- 
ble a year before, when all had seemed to turn away from him 
in suspicion, and when the only course left for him was to fly 
from suspicion and discovery and punishment. A bitter and re- 
vengeful heart his mother had borne through the long and anxious 
year that he had been away — where, she knew not; whether 
living or dead she could only guess ; while Julian Upham, 
equal, she could have sworn, in error and in danger, was living 
unharmed and unsuspected in the town where her boy dared 
not show his face. Once or twice, when Julian had looked out 
of some tavern-haunt where Harry had spent his time before 
he went away, through the darkness of the night he had caught 
sight of her sullen, pallid face peering in, her threatening eyes on 
him, and he had shuddered and drawn back, and tried to forget 
the sight. 

But now Harry had come back as stealthily as he had gone 


HARRY DOES NOT COME HOME. 


281 


away, and he was alive and unchanged, except that he seemed 
older and had a more sullen and hang-dog look. She did not 
dare to ask what life he had been leading. She only felt, he 
was in her arms again ; his brown hair soft and silky to her 
touch, his lips red and warm, as she hung over him stealthily 
while he slept. 

He had been home two days and nights ; during the 
first day he had hung about the house ; the night h^ had 
spent away ; the day again at home, and about twilight he had 
gone out; and now she sat late into the night watching for him, 
and wondering if he would come back. The outskirt of this 
little town was always dull and silent. To-night’s stillness was 
an awful oppression to the lonely woman ; she knew she could 
have heard a footstep a quarter of a mile off on the flagged 
walk that led from the town to the end of the street on which 
the house was situated. Her ear was strained to the uttermost 
to catch the lightest sound ; no one passed along the walk — 
no vehicle rolled through the street ; from eight until eleven 
there was not the sign of any living presence in the dreary 
suburb. 

Phoebe sat on a low seat by the blackened and cold hearth, 
rocking herself slowly backward and forward in her chair — now 
stopping to listen, now rocking to break the silence. She was 
not a woman to give way to womanish and superstitious fancies ; 
but there was one that haunted her nightly in this desolate abode, 
and through all the wakeful, remorseful nights that she had 
passed in it, it bad been her constant torture. There was a 
door leading out of the kitchen, now the only habitable room 
the house contained, a door closed and padlocked — that led into 
the old blacksmith’s shed. Through that door there came 
nightly the dull, regular sound of strokes upon the anvil; mo- 
notonous and smothered, as if from within a deep and sand- 
choked cave; all night long she heard them in the intervals of 
Bleep. She had grown so accustomed to the sound that sho 


282 


HAEEY DOES NOT COME HOME. 


had ceased to feel the throb of terror it bad caused at first, 
only a chill as of a cold wind creeping across her, and she 
would fall asleep again. But this night she was overwrought 
and unnerved 5 she felt as if the muffled beat upon the anvil in 
the low, dark, old shed would drive her mad ; she rocked her 
chair heavily upon the bare and sounding floor to drown it, but 
it was not drowned. The roar of cannon at her side would no 
havor drowned it. It seemed to have its own place in th( 
changing currents of the air, and to sound on in her ear un- 
ceasingly. No wonder that her hair was white and her eyes 
were wild with such nights following such days as hers! 

She pressed her hands tight against her temples and pushed 
back the hair, groaning aloud in the intolerable agony of her soul. 
Oh, for one touch of Harry’s living hand — one sight of breathing 
flesh and blood ! Would he never come ! There was no clock 
to tell the hours in that miserable home; it was very late, she 
knew, by the terrible length of time that had passed since dark 
came on. She drew her apron over her head and went out of 
the house down to the path ; there was no gate, and the fence 
had long since fallen to decay. She stood leaning against an 
old tree-stump beside the path and listened. The night was 
dark and still ; not a breath of air stirred ; not a star gleamed 
in the sky. Presently she heard the town clock strike — one. 
Distant as it was, she heard it with all distinctness, the night 
was so very still. Then Harry would not be back ; she shivered 
and turned again into the house. Would he come back at all ? 
A sudden terror seized her. She remembered he had said a 
gruff good-night, and had come back and made some clumsy 
attempt at a caress as he went away in the twilight. 

She seized the flickering tallow candle and hurried up into 
the loft where he had slept. The old clothes which he had 
worn, and which were the only ones she knew of his having, 
were lying on the floor, kicked into a corner, shoes and hat and 
all. He had gone out in some different suit which she had not 


HAREY DOES NOT COME HOME. 


283 


noticed in the dark. Every article that he had biought with 
him — a pistol, a little case of tools, a dingy wallet stuffed with 
papers — all of which he had kept since he returned in a chest 
beside his bed, were gone. The conviction rushed upon her mind 
— Harry was not coming back. She set down the candle for a 
moment and tried to collect herself and understand what it all 
meant. It meant — Harry was again the accomplice in some 
evil deed: afjain the tool of more .wicked and artful brains 
than his ; again placed in peril of his life, perhaps ; again lost 
to her touch, to her sight, for years — for years! — perhaps for 
ever. The craving, terrible mother-love burst forth in a cry ot 
anguish ; the thought of separation from her child was like a 
mortal pang. 

She sprang to her feet, rushed down, passed the old shed 
where the beat upon the anvil was sounding ceaselessly, and 
out into the night, towards the silent, sleeping town. 


284 


BY JULIAN’S BEDSIDE. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

BY Julian’s bedside. 

“ O holy night I from thee I learn to bear, 

What man has borne before ! 

Thou layest thy fingers on the lips of care, 

And they complain no more.” 

Longfellow. 

Christine was sitting half-undressed in her own room, with 
her arm upon the window-sill, her hair loose upon her shoulders, 
a white wrapper thrown about her. The light was burning 
low upon the table ; the window was open to the dark, still 
night. Her eyes were wet with tears; her attitude expressed 
languor and weariness. Two hours had passed since she came 
to her room, and yet she had not gone to bed. She heard the 
town clock strike one, and she half-arose and then sank wearily 
back again ; and leaning her forehead on her crossed arms on 
the window-sill, remained motionless for half an hour. 

She was aroused by the sudden opening of the gate, the 
sound of a quick step on the walk, a sharp blow on the 
knocker. Fortunately, the knocker was a stiff affair and did 
not yield easily to the hand ; it came down with a slow, sullen 
noise that would not have waked the lightest sleeper. 

Christine sprang up, fearing she knew not what, and taking 
the candle in her hand hurried down the stairs. A natural 
feeling of fear would have made her hesitate before she slid 
back the bolt, but that she longed to prevent a second knock, 
which would perhaps have roused her father, whose nights 
were most disturbed and wakeful now. She pushed back the 
bolt, turned the key, and with a choking sense of apprehen- 


BY JULIAN’S BEDSIDE. 


285 


!sion, opened the door a little way. It was pushed strongly 
from without ; Christine retreated several steps, and held tha 
candle up before she recognised, in the haggard woman in tha 
door-way, the once familiar face of Plicebe Gilmore. 

Her eyes were sullen and flaming, her dress was pitiably 
poor, and her fine black hair had turned to grey since Chris- 
tine had seen her last. She had some fierce words on her lips 
as she came in at the door, but the sight of Christine checked 
her for an instant, but only for an instant. 

“ I have come for my boy,” she said, fiercely. “ I know the 
place to come for him ; I have held my tongue for a year or 
more. I am not going to hold it any longer. Call Julian 
down and tell him Harry Gilmore’s mother wants to see him.” 

“I do not believe Julian can tell you anything about your 
boy, Phoebe,” said Christine, retreating another step; for the 
woman’s manner was frightful enough. “Come in and tell me 
why you think he can.” 

“ You know as well as I do why I think he can. You know 
whose money hushed things up and sent the boy away. You 
know who always hatches up the mischief, and who always 
bears the blame. It’s gone on long enough, my delicate young 
woman. You’re very sweet and pretty, and very pious, people 
say. But it’s gone on long enough. Because you are the 
minister’s daughter isn’t a reason that you should be always 
kept from learning ugly words. Ministers are all very well in 
their way, but if they don’t look after their sons and daughters 
they must bear the consequences of it. I’m a poor wmman, and 
I don’t go to church and am not much thought of by you pious 
people ; but I’ve got a right to be heard, and the law will hear 
me if you won’t. The law, my nice young lady, the law ! And 
Julian Upbam shall answer for his work some time before he’s 
an old man, depend upon it. Some time before he’s a much 
older man than he is now. Call him down, for I am not going 
away without a sight of him.” 


286 


BY JULIAN’S BEDSIDE. 


“Listen,” said Christine, in a quiet voice. “Julian is asleep, 
I do not want to wake him; I do not want to wake my father. 
Come in the morning. You can see him then.” 

“Hist,” said the woman, in a voice that made Christine 
shudder. “You are ‘very clever, but I am clcyer, too; I know 
as well as you do that Julian is not in the house. That is what 
I came to know. That is what I mean to swear before the 
magistrate to-morrow.” 

“He is in the house,” said Christine, with a firmness that 
startled her. “ He has been in it several hours.” 

“Can you swear that?” said her companion, tauntingly. 

“I can swear that,” she returned, unmoved. 

“ Show him to me or I can swear you could not.” 

“I shall not show him to you,” she said, with deliberation, 
“but upon one condition. That you go noiselessly up with me 
to the door of his room, look at him without awakening him, 
and go away without disturbing any member of the house. If 
you promise this you can go up with me now.” 

“ I promise,” said the woman, after a moment of silence. 

Christine felt, a shiver as she took up the candle from the 
hall-table and went towards the stairs, the woman following 
closely. She had long felt that Phoebe was half insane ; her 
words and looks to-night confirmed her in the belief that her 
mind had been shattered by her dreadful trials. To be going 
stealthily through a dark and silent house at the dead hour of 
night, with no help at hand, and with a fierce and half-crazed 
enemy at her back, was not a thing that all women could 
have done composedly. Christine was very pale, and the hand 
that held the candle shook almost imperceptibly ; but her voice 
V7as firm and her step deliberate. 

“You had better take off your shoes,” she said, pausing 
before they reached the upper landing. “They make a noise, 
and I do not want to wake my father.” 

The woman stooped and slipped off her loose heavy shoes ; 


BY Julian’s bedside. 


281 


this gave Christine an advantage; it gare her an excuse to 
pause and get her companion beside her, which was much more 
comfortable than having her out of sight — and carrying the shoes 
kept one of the hands employed, which Christine’s active fancy 
was imagining continually in a tight grasp around her throat. 
The corridor was long and dark, and the candle flickered and 
gave but a dim, faint light; at the door of Julian’s room Chris- 
ine paused again, and said : 

“ Remember your promise ; you are not to speak nor wake 
him, nor go to the bed ; only to look at him, and then go 
away.” 

“I remember,” said the woman, doggedly; and Christine, 
with a thousand misgivings, softly turned the handle of the 
door and entered. 

Phoebe followed her closely; Christine paused a few feet 
from the bed, and laying her hand on the woman’s arm to keep 
her back, held the candle so that the light fell full upon the 
bed. It was a pretty bed, with delicate white coverings, and 
pillows with wide embroidered trimmings. Upon the wall 
above hung a picture, bought for its resemblance to Helena ; 
the face haughty, coquettish, and defiant — a face that it was 
difficult to think of as a mother’s, bending over a cradle, or 
smiling down upon a waking baby. The furniture of the room 
was graceful, and showed that the boy had had all loving arts 
employed to make him pleased at home. The shelves were 
filled with books ; there were easy chairs, and a sofa with a 
beautiful embroidered cushion. Phoebe thought bitterly of the 
loft where Harry flung himself down to sleep at night, or where 
in dangerous times he hid himself by day ; and as her eyes 
fell upon the boy fast asleep upon the soft, luxurious bed, with 
his gold-colored hair upon the fair white pillow, and his grace- 
ful arm flung over the dainty coverlet, there passed an expression 
across her face which it was well her companion did not see. 

Christine was looking at him with a yearning tenderness ; 


288 


BY JULIAN’S BEDSIDE. 


he was so beautifuJ when he slept, where could the ricioua 
and evil temper be that made her life^so miserable ! 

There was a perfect silence; could the boy have opened his 
eyes and looked up, what a strange sight would have met 
them ! His beautiful young aunt with her fair unbound hair, 
gazing at him with tender eyes, and holding back the strange, 
haggard, evil-eyed woman, whose gaze seemed to devour him. 
Unconscious of what passed around him, he slept on and never 
knew the love and the rev'enge that had watched above his 
bed ; and because he did not see it he did not believe in it — one 
child among many who will not believe in the guardianship 
they do not see. 

“ Are you satisfied ?” Christine whispered low, as her com- 
panion drew a long deep breath and moved back a step. Her 
clenched hand relaxed as Christine spoke. 

“Yes, I am satisfied,” she said, going towards the door, 
stopping to glance back at the sleeper once before she reached 
it. She went before Christine through the hall and down the 
stairs with a quick, excited tread; and stopping to put on her 
shoes as she reached the hall-door, drew her shawl around her 
and went out, without a word or a look towards her conductor. 

Christine bolted the door after her with a sensation of pro- 
found relief, and hurried through the house to secure all the 
other fastenings before she went to her own room to ponder 
over the strange events of the night, and to apprehend a thcu- 
sand evils coming in their train. 


A ROBBERY. 


289 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A ROBBERY. 

“ Qui se eouche avec des chiens, se leve avec les puces.” 

A. NEW excitement filled the town of on the next day ; an 

excitement that struck a chill to Christine’s very heart, and 
that made Dr. Catherwood look darker and more perplexed 
than ever. The bank had been robbed ; a wholesale and 
tremendous robbery. Raymond Clybourne, recently made a 
teller in it, had disappeared ; suspicion, of course, fastened itself 
upon him, but it was evident the robbery was the work of two 
or three at least. All sorts of conjectures were rife, and the 
testimony of more than one person, that young Gilmore had 
been seen about the place within a day or two, had directed 
inquiry towards him. 

For three days nothing else was talked of ; every possible 
step was taken to apprehend the suspected parties. No trace 
of them could be discovered. Phoebe Gilmore was cross- 
examined as to the return and departure of her son. The un- 
happy woman was maddened to find every word she said was 
forging chains for Harry. She entered an accusation against 
Julian, and reiterated her conviction that in both cases of her 
son’s delinquency he had been an accomplice and abettor. But 
all this passed for the bitter spleen of a half-crazed mother ; the 
ancient grudge she bore the minister’s family was remembered, 
and as there were plenty to testify to Julian’s whereabouts on 
the night of the robbery and on the day preceding it, she 
found herself powerless to do an injury where she so burned to 
do one. 


13 


290 


A BOBBERY. 


Dr. Catherwood had not beeTi idle. He had had but a short 
interview with Julian, but more than one with the directors of 
the bank, in which he was a large stockholder. The Clybourne 
family were plunged in the most terrible affliction ; no one 
dared to go to them but Dr. Catherwood : even Christine was 
afraid to seek Madeline for the present time. 

And Julian — a little pale and haggard, but doggedly self- 
possessed — he went abbut his ordinary amusements and occupa- 
tions; somewhat ostentatiously perhaps keeping himself in 
sight, and speculating more than seemed altogether natural on 
the recent astounding news. He was at home rather more 
than usual ; Christine felt all the time a strange and growing 
apprehension of some new development ; but she did not even 
define it to herself. His occasional caresses made her shudder 
and then filled her with self-reproach. What did she suspect? 
He had always grudged the half hour in the day which de- 
cency, and perhaps policy, had demanded he should spend with 
his grandfather. The old man was sad and silent always after 
seeing him. He felt that things were going wrong; he for- 
bore to disgust him with good advice, and he felt his inability 
to influence him ; and looking to Dr. Catherwood for his actual 
guidance, he kept silence and seemed unmoved. But during 
the week that succeeded the bank robbery, Julian had gone 
often to the study, spending a large part of his time at home 
there, and evidently endeavoring to ingratiate himself with his 
grandfather. What progress he made no one ever knew ; the 
subject of his grandson was sealed between Dr. [Jpham and 
his family. 

A long week it was to Christine ; her apprehensions did not 
subside ; her sleep was restless and broken. One night, just 
eight from the unhappy one when Pheebe Gilmore made her 
strange visit to the Parsonage,- Christine woke from her uneasy 
slumber with a start, and with the impression that some noise 
had roused her. But it was so vague she cculd not recall its 


A ROBBERY. 


201 


nature. For a long while she lay quietly, trying to forget it 
and trying to sleep. But at length she resolved it would do 
no harm to go and look at Julian, and assure heisclf that he 
was safe. Many times within the last week she had gone to 
his room at night, and soothed herself by seeing him innocently 
and peacefully asleep. She prepared herself hastily, and light- 
ing a candle went towards his room. A painful apprehension 
struck her, when, as she reached it, the cold night wind from 
an open window within blew out the newly lighted candle. It 
seemed an interminable time before she could relight it and 
come back to the room. Shading it with her hand, she entered. 

A scene of careless confusion — an empty bed, an open win- 
dow ; Christine’s heart died within her. She shut the window, 
put the candle on a stand beside it, and sat down. Julian was 
gone. This confirmed her dread for him. And yet, perhaps, 
impatient of the restraint and coldness at home, he had rushed 
into larger liberty. Other boys had done it and outlived the 
folly. Perhaps he would return ; perhaps this was but for a 
few days’ adventure. But the sack of his drawers, the confusion 
of his room, did not look like that exactly. Everything of 
value was gone ; a pair of richly-mounted pistols and a handsome 
dirk that had been among his mother’s valuables, and had al- 
ways decorated a panel in his room, were taken down ; his 
clothes had evidently been looked over with care, and the best 
portion of them taken. What was to be done ? Christine did not 
know ; he was gone. Pursuit was \*ain. Her first thought was 
to shield him. None, should know that he had fled from her so 
ungratefully. With a heavy heart she began to fold up and re- 
arrange his clothes. The servant in the morning must not sus- 
pect that he had left his room for longer than the day ; before 
night she could arrange something to say in explanation of his 
absence. It was a sad task, indeed, but Christine was used to 
sad work. 

Presently she saw something that broke her composure down 


292 


A ROBBERY. 


completely. A little picture of herself that she had given him, 
and that hung beside his glass, was gone. He had taken it; he 
had felt a little love and a little tenderness as he thought of leav- 
ing her. Oh, her darling boy, her poor lost Julian ! With a burst 
of sobs she flung herself upon the bed and pressed her face 
down upon the pillow. Her heart had yearned for years foi 
some token that he loved her — some sign that his heart was 
human, and now it came too late. Perhaps it was her fault 
that he was what he was. The most self-torturing thoughts 
succeeded each other in her mind — she had not pursued the 
right method with him ; she had been too cold, too exacting. 
She had sacrifleed her life to him with the purest motive, and 
had lost him by some involuntary error. What should she say 
to Helena ? How should she answer before Heaven for this 
soul ? All his faults were covered by this little charity of ten- 
derness. She loved him as she always loved him — when asleep, 
when absent, or when ill. She thought of him as her little 
son, the dear charge of her early girlhood, the object of her 
prayers, her love, her solicitude, before any other object came to 
dispute her heart with him. Oh, that was the sin, she feared. 
She had kept to the letter of her promise, and had violated 
its whole spirit. Everything seemed changed. Julian was no 
longer the sinner but the sinned against. She lay till dawn 
crept faintly in at the windows, in an agony of self-reproach 
and misery. The approach of daylight roused her ; she arose 
and resumed her task of ptftting the room in its ordinary shape. 

Just as she had completed it and was turning to leave the 
room, her eye caught something now visible in the pale grey 
light, lying on the floor under the dressing-glass. She stooped 
to pick it up. It was her picture, the delicate frame crushed in 
by the tread of a careless foot. A cold steel seemed to cut into 
her heart at that sight. She dropped the picture into the near- 
est drawer and turned the key, and went out of the room feel 
ing as if she dreamed. 


A ROBBERY. 


203 


The study door was open ; she glanced into it as she passed. 
Her father’s door was closed which communicated with it. 
Both these things were unusual. She entered hastily, and went 
up to her father’s private desk'; the lock was broken, the con- 
tents rifled. She tried hurriedly to restore it to its usual look, 
adiusted the broken lock, and thought of the moment when her 
father must know w'hat she did. She had no prayer to say just 
then. She passed by the window that looked into the church 
yard, but it did not seem peaceful now, only cold and dead and 
hopeless. The grey dawn was breaking into a cold and stormy 
day. The rain was beginning to patter against the panes, and 
the wind blew in gusts that shook and bowed the tender young 
green branches of the trees. How could they — how could the 
sweet frail flowers in the garden beds below, live through this 
cold and cruel storm. 

She turned shivering away. 


294 


DE PROFUNDIS. 


CHAPTER XL. 

DE PROFUNDIS. 

** And cold before my summer’s done, 

And deaf In Nature’s general tune, 

And fallen too low for special fear, 

And here, with hope no longer here, — 

"While the tears drop, my days go on.” 

E. B. BaowNiNa. 

Dr. Catherwood looked out from the window of his little par- 
lor that morning, as he heard the gate-latch lifted. A carriage 
stood at the gate, and a lady was coming down the path. It 
was Christine with a cloak wrapped around her, bowing her 
head to meet the storm of wind and rain that was sweeping 
round the house. He hurried out to the door. He divined 
what had brought her. She had come to his house but 
twice before — once when Mrs. Sherman brought her there to 
luncheon, that summer four years ago, and once when she had 
been in some trouble about the boy. She always seemed afraid 
of the place, and looked away when she passed it. He felt a 
strange sensation of satisfaction that she had had to come to it 
at last. He opened the door, and taking her hand, drew her in 
from the storm, and led her to the bright fire in the grate of the 
little room. 

“ Take off this wet cloak,” he said. “ This is a terrible 
storm for June.” 

“ It is no matter about the cloak,” she said, loosening it a 
little and sinking down into the chair he placed for her beside 
the fire. Her face was ashy pale, and the black shade beneath 
her eyes made them look larger and darker than ever. Her 


/ 


DE PROPUNDIS. 295 

Ups were livid, &nd she seemed so chilled for a few moments it 
was impossible for her to speak. 

“ Let me give you something,” he said, moving towards the 
sideboard. 

“ No,” she said, rising and arresting his hand ; there is 
nothing the matter with me ; I am only cold. I came to tell 
you, Julian has gone away,” 

“ I am not surprised. I felt sure that he would go.” 

“ That is not the worst. I want you to know it all,” said 
Christine, covering her face. 

Dr. Catherwood looked anxious and alarmed as he led her 
back to her chair in silence. 

“ He has taken everything from my father’s desk, and you 
must tell him, for I cannot. I think it would kill me if I 
bad to do it.” 

Dr. Catherwood grew suddenly pale, as if the news had . 
sickened him. He passed his hand across his forehead, which 
was wet with a sudden moisture, and turned away to the 
window for a moment. Christine did not look up, and presently 
he turned back to her and said in a voice that betrayed no 
unusual feeling : 

“ Christine, God knows all about this boy. You have done 
your duty.” 

A low cry escaped her lips as if he had touched on too 
quivering a chord. But he knew what he was doing. 

“ You have given up everything for him,” he went on, “ and 
T know would at any time have died to assure yourself of his 
present and eternal safety. You have been judicious. I have 
looked on, and have seen all ; you may rest assured you have 
fewer errors of judgment to regret than most have who govern 
children. I have wondered often at your great discretion. I 
believe the only course that presented a chance of saving him 
has been pursued. For his own sake, for yours, for my own, I 
have exerted all my ingenuity to win him to a better life. 1 


296 


DE PEOFUNDIS. 


have failed. You have failed. I believe an angel from heaven 
would have failed. We cannot go into the past and see who is 
responsible ; all that concerns us is to know, in this possible 
actual present, we have done our duty. The children of many 
prayers, Christine — the children of devoted love, of pious 
homes, with mothers and with fathers watching every breath 
they draw, go strangely and fatally to ruin ; from the time they 
begin to live drawing surely towards their evil end. What it 
means we know not now, but we shall know hereafter. A 
few tears, my poor little Christine, but no self-reproach, no vain 
regrets, no struggling to solve the riddle by unjust accusations 
and self-condemnation. Be brave as you have always been ; be 
wise and patient.” 

“I cannot be patient,” she exclaimed. “Is there nothing 
more to do ? Must we let him go without an eflfort ; is there 
not a chance that we can bring him back ?” 

“ Not one, I fear. Be reasonable, Christine ; all that man can 
do, I will, to find him and to bring him home ; but do not lay 
up disappointment for yourself. His cunning is beyond belief. 
He will escape detection and will yet run a long career, it seems 
to me. Of his personal safety I think you m^y be reasonably 
secure. He is not one to risk himself unwisely. Though 
you may not hear of him, it is reasonable to think that he is 
safe.” 

“ His poor mother ! what shall I say to her !” murmured 
Christine in a broken voice. 

“ Say to her that you have more than done your duty ; that 
if human devotion and self-sacrifice could have atoned for the 
sinful past, yours would have atoned for it, and her boy would 
have been saved.” 

He spoke in a low voice, with his face turned from her. 

At last she rose and drew her cloak about her. 

“You will tell my father?” she said, hesitatingly. 

“Yes, as soon as it becomes necessary,” he answered, in his 


DE PROFUNDIS. 


297 


ordinary tone. “ In the meantime, say to no one that he is 
gone. In a few days, when I have made all the investigations 
that are possible, it may gradually come out that he has gone 
away — to sea, to join the array, to the West. I will arrange 
all that. He will escape suspicion, I trust, and that is the one 
chance there is that he may finally be won back to his home. 
Some time we may be able to let him know you have lovingly 
concealed his sin, and that it need not stand between him and 
a fair life in the future. It is the only hope.” 

Christine took a step or two towards the door and then 
paused, and with a painful hesitation said : “ I hopo you do not 
blame me for coming to you so — for asking such favors from 
you. I know it must seem strange. I cannot quite understand 
how I can do it — but-- — ” 

“ But you listen to your heart, Christine, which tells you it 
is right. Continue to believe it, not only for your own sake 
but for the sake of duty. I have taken npon myself this charge. 
Do not feel pained to have to call upon me ; if you had no 
interest in him, I should have done the same for him.” 

Christine raised her head with an involuntary look of sur- 
prise. He added, hastily : 

“ The grandson of Dr. Upham can never be indifferent to 
me.” 

She turned hastily away, and pulling her cloak around her, 
with some half-inaudible words hurried out into the storm. 

18 * 


298 


MADELINE SNAPS THE CHAINS. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

MADELINE SNAPS THE CHAINS. 

“Life is too short for logic ; what I do 
I must do simply ; God alone must judge, 

For God alone shall guide. 

I have snapped opinion's chains, and now I’ll soar 
Up to the blazing sunlight, and be free.” 

Kingslet. 

Madeline Clybourne was walking up and down her own room 
like a caged tigress ; ker face was pale, her eyes were burning 
with indignant fire. Mrs. Clybourne, more haggard and thinner 
than ever before, sat by the window with a fixed though troubled 
expression, striving to stem the torrent of her daughter’s ex 
cited words, and to conquer some resolution she had formed. 

It was autumn, some six months after Raymond’s disgrace and 
disappearance — six months which had been spent in retirement 
and silence at the cottage ; and now, for the first time since that 
event, Mrs. Clybourne had begun to talk to Madeline about 
going into the world again — about keeping up her position in 
society — not giving up what they had both worked so hard to 
obtain — not surrendering upon the first rebuff. It seemed 
strange that so painful a trial as this had not broken Mrs. 
Clybourne’s spirit ; but the truth was, her ambition had a very 
deep root, and all this ambition was for Madeline. Of Raymond 
she had long expected some such thing as this ; she knew him to 
be utterly unprincipled, and all she had hoped for him for many 
years had been an exemption from notorious disgrace. When 
the blow came, she nerved herself to bear it, and she inwardly 
pledged herself never to give up the fight till she was beaten 


MADELINE SNAPS THE CHAINS. 


299 


back inch by inch from the ground that she had so long disputed. 
Mrs. Clybourne was not softened by this discipline ; how we 
bear our trials is not a question of the moment ; it is as we have 
spent our lives and fitted ourselves to meet them. Mrs. Cly- 
bourne had made herself very strong to resist humiliation and 
very stubborn to resent the pity of the world. 

She had been dreading for some time the effect her wishes 
might have upon her daughter, but it was now time she knew 
them. She anticipated a storm, and she was confident she 
could weather it safely. Mrs. Sherman, just returned from 
Europe, had written her a very characteristic though kind- 
hearted letter, telling her to send Madeline to her for the 
winter, and she would provide for her and take her out into 
society. This offer proceeded partly from an impulsive good- 
ness of heart which she had not quite worn out, and which was 
still strong enough to actuate her if the action did not involve 
any trial to her selfishness ; and partly from a desire to have 
again with her the high-spirited girl with whom she always 
quarrelled, but who gave a sort of fresh interest to her blaze life. 

“ Madeline,” said her mother, quietly, “ if you are perverse 
and refuse to go to town this winter, let me assure you of one 
thing — before another comes around you will be forgotten.” 

“ I hope I may be,” she said, bitterly. “ To be forgotten is 
the best thing that can happen to those that bear the name of 
Clybourne. Forgotten ! good heavens, they have little to 
remember of me that I do not want to forget myself ; I wish I 
.could blot it all out for ever. I wish I could forget them as 
they will forget me — forget that I ever was part of so untrue 
and miserable a life. Mother, you need not ask it of me ; I will 
not go back to it.” 

** You will behave ungratefully and cruelly then, Madeline 
You will repay the care of my whole life most shamefully.” 

Madeline turned abruptly round and stood still; her face 
flushed suddenly. 


300 


MADELINE SNAPS THE CHAINS. 


“ Mother, I never meant to reproach you with it , I nevei 
meant to remind you you had done it ; but if you say that — 1 
say — look at me ! What have you made me — what have you 
brought me to ! A wretched woman, eating my own heart out 
with discontent and misery ; a useless, frittered mind, an ill- 
governed, fretful temper, a heart that cries gut day and night 
in its intolerable and bitter loneliness. Mother ! your children 
have disappointed you, but you have had them in your arms; 
they have filled your time, your thoughts, your love. My 
father died, but you have the memory of the days when your 
hearts beat against each other and your lips met in a thousand 
kisses. But I — I have no memories. I have no hopes, no 
aims, no duties. Yon have kept away from me all healthy food, 
and my soul is starved and savage. It only made my sister 
weak and puny — it has made me desperate and wicked. You 
should have judged me better ; you should have given me 
something to stop the gnawing at my heart. I could have 
done a good work in the world. I am a head and shoulder 
above other women ; I am capable of greater things than they. 
And what am I now ? My soul dwarfed and undeveloped — 
my intellect wasted — my powers unused — my name disgraced — 
stung to madness by the failure of my life — and you look at me 
coldly and say I am ungrateful and undutiful, and tell me to 
go back to the artificial glare and stifling heat of that place I 
hated years ago ! You tell me to go back and live it all over 
again — the trifling and the meanness and the falsehood — now 
since this great shame has fallen on us — now, O mother! 
No ; I will not go back 1 No ; I will defy and set at naught 
any authority that commands me to do that. You need not 
ask it of me.” 

Mrs. Cly bourne looked very pale ; she was not quite prepared 
for this; but she had conquered Madeline so many times- before 
through the girl’s sense of duty to her and by the force of her 
own older if not stronger will, that she did not give upt 


MADELINE SNAPS THE CHAINS. 


301 


“ Madeline, this is quixotic and absurd. You are saying some 
very foolish things. You are excited ; you will feel diflferently 
by and by.” 

“ I am not excited. I should have given you the same 
answer any time that you had asked me for the six months past.” 

“ I trust too much to your good sense, Madeline, to believe 
this of you. You talk as if your life were ended, whereas in 
reality it has just begun. At twenty^^ and with your beauty ” 

“ Do not talk to me about my beauty,” she cried, passionately. 

“ I hate it ; I wish that I had never had it ! It is going from 
me, and you know it. You look at me, when you think I do 
not notice, with a troubled and unhappy look. No, you have 
spent your capital — there is nothing left ; we must begin the 
world again impoverished. I hate myself when I look in my 
glass, when I think of the hours that I have spent before it, the 
foolish and vain dreams that it has inspired me with. When I 
remember the thousand times that my fingers have plaited my 
hair, I loathe it, and long to cut it off" and wear a cap, and 
change myself to my own eyes. I do not care for the world’s 
eyes any longer ; approving or disdaining, they have lost their 
power with me. There is something deeper; there is another 
life. I have outgrown the other. You cannot crowd my soul 
down into it again. You must let me live my life now. I have 
lived yours long enough.” 

“ Never ask my consent,” said Mrs. Clybourne, rising to go 
out, “ to withdraw yourself from the world and live a diflferent 
life from that which your birth and station fit you for. If my «• 
authority does not bring you to submit, your own good sense, T 
trust, will, at last.” 

Mrs. Clybourne left the room and went down stairs, quite 
pale and shaken in nerves, but quite confident that she should 
triumph in the end. She had a good many material considera- 
tions, which, presented to Madeline in proper form, could not fail 
to have their weight. Susie with her five noisy children, and 


802 


MADELINE SNAPS THE CHAINS. 


cumbering, heavy husband, were coming to the cottage next week 
the last dollar of their badly invested fortune gone, and it would 
be worse than torture to Madeline to live in the house with them. 

Besides, Mrs. Clybourne’s slender income would barely supply 
the family needs; one person less in the household would be a 
great relief, and Mrs. Sherman’s generous offer to provide for 
11 Madeline’s wants, could not be thrown aside. Madeline 
nust, should, be brought to reason ; “ hope springs eternal 
this winter’s campaign might restore all, and bring the long 
looked-for piece of fortune. 

The next morning, going into Madeline’s room, the mother’s 
courage and high spirit gave way for the first time in all her 
hard and struggling life. Madeline w'as gone — with h^er plain- 
est clothes, half-a-dozen favorite books, a little writing desk, 
and a tiny work-box that she had had given her when a little 
girl. A very affectionate but determined letter came to light, 
promising her mother that she should hear from her, and that 
in every way that was possible she would respect her wishes ; 
stating that she knew the home resources, and that in no way 
could she add to them, while she remained at home, or ease her 
mother’s cares. Susie would be more of a comfort to her, she 
supposed, than she had ever been or ever could be, with their 
different views. She reminded her mother that she had told 
her not to ask her consent to what she was about to do, and, 
knowing that she could not make her see it as she did, she had 
taken this method of solving the difficulty, and assumed for 
^ herself the responsibility of giving up the world. She hoped 
for brighter days, when she should resume her place by her 
mother’s side, and share with her the hopes and pleasures of a 
wiser life, if she could but find out where it lay. 

All the trials of Mrs. Clybourne’s life seemed as nothing when 
compared with this : she felt that all the promise of this world 
was over, and sank on her knees by Madeline’s empty bed, for 
the first time an humbled woman. 


TWO YEAES LATEE. 


303 


CHAPTER XLII. 

TWO YEARS LATER. 

“ Snreljr this is the birthday of no grief, 

That dawns so pleasantly along the skies,” 

Hood. 

Two years had passed since then, two long years of anxiety and 
silence. Julian had not been heard from : the most careful 
investigation had left it still a mystery whether he had gone 
abroad or remained in America, calling himself by some other 
name and disguising his appearance so effectually that none of 
those upon the watch for him were able to detect him. Ray- 
mond Clybourne and Harry Gilmore were less adroit in their 
concealment; Raymond had been heard of in Havana, and 
the police had been more than once on the track of Harry, and 
had lost it. 

By some strange good fortune, Julian’s name never was asso- 
ciated with theirs, though the nearness of the time of their 
disappearance would have seemed to warrant it. But Dr. 
Catherwood had been so careful in disconnecting all traces of 
Julian with them, and had given so dexterous a coloring to his 
departure, that all were blinded. The boy had always professed 
a passion for the sea, and it was very easy to make people 
receive the impression that he had sailed for the Mediterranean, 
and would perhaps be absent years, sailing in some vessel that 
traded between its ports. 

At first people were disposed to inquire a good deal about 
him ; but by and by they began to forget to ask, and before 
the end of these two years he had pretty much died out of 


304 


TWO TEAKS LATER. 


mind, and Christine had very little trouble in evading inquiries 
about him. 

Between her father and herself there was an oppressive 
silence in respect to him. Sometimes, when her heart ached to 
bursting with apprehension and yearning, it would have been 
an unspeakable relief to have thrown herself into her father’s 
arms and wept out her anguish. But since the day when the 
dreadful news of Julian’s crime had been communicated to him, 
he had been perfectly silent regarding him, and no one had 
dared to break the silence. His health was sinking slowly but 
surely ; his daughter clung to him more closely each month, 
as she saw the desolation ahead drawing towards her steadily. 

With Dr. Catherwood the silence was almost as oppressive. 
Since that morning when she had gone to him with the -news, 
there had been a restraint, a coldness between them that it was 
almost impossible to break through. His manner had lost 
some of its self-control; he did not seem to trust himself as 
formerly, and she never could forget the chill of his last words on 
that morning. Altogether, this last two years had been the 
saddest and hardest of her life. She had passed through 
moments of worse anguish in others, but the aggregate of 
suffering was greater now. While Julian was a present object 
of anxiety and unhappiness, there was the relief of action 
and exertion, and, though she did not acknowledge it to her- 
self, the constant support and sympathy of Dr. Catherwood. 
Now, there was no longer any reason for this, and they were 
almost strangers. It was the one softening influence of her 
life withdrawn ; she had had no other real sympathy and 
pleasure, and she felt the loneliness almost insupportable. She 
know that her father’s life was drawing to its close, and that 
she could almost count the days that would be soothed by the 
touch of his living hand. The future looked so dark and 
desolate ; the present was so grey and still. There was a dull 
monotony about the days that made her sometimes uncontrolla* 


TWO YEARS LATER. 


805 


bly irapatient of them ; but at last their monotony was broken, 
and she repented with a pang of her impatience. 

It was November ; fires had not been lighted yet ; the season 
was very late ; the leaves had yellowed without brilliant tints, 
and still hung on the trees; the days were mild and hazy; the 
rights starless and still. It was the morning of the seventh ; 
Christine was sitting by her father’s bedside, when he roused 
himself and said : 

“ It is time for the mail, my daughter ; is it not ?” 

“Yes, father,” she said, rising. “I will put on my bonnet 
and go down to the oflBce for it. I have an errand in the town, 
besides.” 

Dr. Upham’s one interest in the outside world now seemed 
to be the receipt of the daily mail. He had always been par- 
ticular about hearing from the post-office as soon as it was 
opened ; and he continued to count the moments till some 
messenger brought him the assurance that nothing of import- 
ance had come to him, either through public or private sources. 
The servants were apt to loiter a little on the way, or not to be 
so promptly attended to at the office ; so Christine knew she 
pleased her father best by going for the letters and papers her- 
self, and bringing them directly to him. It was a pleasant 
walk for her sometimes — the only one she had in the 
course of the day — for most of her time now was demanded by 
him. 

She was a little early this morning, and she loitered rathei 
slowly along the broad, quiet walk, strewed with yellow leaves 
and shaded with yellow boughs that made an artificial sun- 
shine under the pale, grey sky. ^ was a pleasant, quiet 

town even in its busiest streets. The post-office was in' the 
principal one — a large and rather dark building, formerly used 
as a store-house. There was a great square room in front 
where people waited for their letters, and where men read the 
papers ; and at the back of it ran a partition that shut oflf the 


306 


TWO YEAES LATEE. 


office proper, and in which was the window through which tho 
mail matter was delivered. 

Just as Christine reached the door of the office, there was a 
noise and excitement in the cross-street below, a rush to the 
door of the people waiting for the mail, and she was obliged 
to give way and step back on the pavement and gaze with the 
gazing crowd towards the scene of the excitement. I 
was only a moment’s sight, and Christine hardly compre 
hended it, 

A cart rolled along, followed by men and boys, who were 
drawn after it by curiosity alone, for they were mostly silent, 
and only the noise of their feet was heard shuffling and tram- 
pling upon the pavement. In the cart there was some one strug 
gling and screaming — a woman’s voice, smothered and silenced 
by those who held her, and then bursting out shrill and 
piercing. Christine did not see her face; sickened and 
frightened, she turned away from the sight. There were some 
exclamations and a good many shrugs and shakings of the 
head as the people turned back and re-entered the office. 

The mail was not open yet. Christine thought she would 
go out and walk for a few moments, but she feared coming 
upon the horrid sight again, and in truth it had made her so 
faint she scarcely dared trust herself to walk at once; so she 
took a seat that some one kindly placed for her and waited, 
listening meanwhile to the talk of those around her. 

Near her stood a well-dressed, quiet-looking woman, who was 
asking the man beside her who it was they were carrying off 
on the cart, and what the matter with her was. 

“ Why,” said the man, who seemed very much pleased to 
find some one who had not heard all about the occurrence 
“ that was Phoebe Gilmore, whom they are carrying to the 
mad-house. She’s been half-crazy for three years or more.* I 
suppose you’ve often seen her round the streets ?” 

“No,” said the woman, sedately; “Pm a stranger in thd 


TWO YEAES LATER. 


30 ') 


place. I never saw her to my knowledge. What set her ofl 
worse at last ?” 

“ Why,” said the man, laying down his yesterday’s papei 
across his knee and smoothing it out with a good deal of care, 
“ that man that was found murdered by the dam this morning 
w’as her son, you see ; and from the minute that they took the body 
home there was no two men could hold her. She’s given the 
sheriff a wound he’ll bear the scar of to his dying day, and 
she’ll do more mischief. I’m afraid, before they get her locked 
up, for she’s like a tiger.” 

“ And so it was her son that was killed,” said the woman, 
w'ith interest ; she was not so great a stranger but that she 
had heard of that. 

“ Yes, poor fellow ! He wasn’t much of a loss to her or to 
the town, for he’s been in mischief ever since he wore frocks ; 
but it’s hard upon a woman to have to see her , own flesh 
and blood hacked up and murdered in that awful way.” 

“They found him down by the dam, didn’t they ?” said the 
woman, evidently anxious for any new particulars that might 
come to light in the man’s rendering of the story. 

“ Beyond the dam, down in a well that belongs to the old 
house the Gilmores used to live in when Richard kept the mill. 
He’d made a good fight for it, poor fellow, by the looks of things 
around the well. There was blood and the deep marks of their 
boots in the ground half-a-dozen yards back from it where they 
wrestled ; it must have been after night-fall and as black as tar. 
And there are marks of blood upon the curb where he clung 
to it with his hands, and his fingers were all mangled dreadfully 
where the fellow stamped upon ’em to make him let go his 
hold and fall. The well was dry and full of stones, and the fal 
did up the work.” 

“ It is the worst thing I ever heard of,” said the woman, 
looking a little pale, but not willing to give the subject up ; 
“ and they haven’t got much idea who it was they say ?” 


308 


TWO TEARS LATER. 


“ The whole of what they’ve got to go upon is this,” said th« 
man, folding his newspaper up tight and slapping it upon his 
hands : “ There is a fellow up here at the Factory, Jarvis by 
name (a drinking man, by the way, and not the best sort of a 
witness to ^o upon the stand), who swears, as he was going 
out on the Turnsbury road last night, he saw two men coming 
towards the dam. It’s a pretty lonesome road, and was almost 
night-fall, and as there were two of them, Jarvis most likely 
did not let the grass grow under his feet as he went past ’em. 
He’ll swear to young Gilmore, which don’t 'do much good, con- 
sidering all the town has a chance of swearing to him, poor 
fellow ; but about the fellow with him, he can only say he was 
a little slighter than Harry, and dressed in sailor’s clothes like 
him. His face was turned away from him, and so he can’t say 
anything at all about his face. He don’t think they either of 
them saw him, or took much notice of him if they did, for there 
were high words going on between them, and the quarrel had 
begun, no doubt. He can’t testify to anything he heard ’em 
say, so I take it he was pretty badly scared, and made all the 
hurry he knew how. There hasn’t been a trace found as yet ; 
but they’re working hard for it, 1 can tell you. The town ’ll 
turn out to a man before they let him go ; for though Harry 
Gilmore wasn’t any great credit to it ever, folks don’t like to feel 
there can be murder done so near their doors and nobody be 
found to swing for it,” 

The man slapped the newspaper down again upon his open 
palm, and moved away towards the windov/ of the office, open 
now for the distribution of the mail. Almost all the people 
waiting had been served and had gone away before Christine rose 
from her seat and went up to the window. The clerk was a 
young man who had rather a chivalrous admiration for the 
beautiful young lady who came every day for * her father’s 
letters, and he qipticed with concern that she looked pale and 
ill. Nobody else noticed it, though, and she went home through 


TWO YEARS LATER. 


300 


an unfrequented street and across the churchyard, and up to 
her own room, without meeting any of the household. 

“ You are late, Christine,” said her father, gently, as she 
entered the room with the papers in her hand. 

“ A little, perhaps,” she said, bending down to kiss him. 
She read the papers through, and sat by him with her work in 
her hand as usual. 

What long hours, though, they were till Dr. Catherwood 
came and took her place and left her at liberty to be alone 
awhile. She always left the room a few minutes after he 
entered it ; to-day he looked at her a little anxiously, but she 
avoided his eye, and went out. When he 'came down stairs 
after his hour with Dr. Upham, he went towards the parlor 
with some idea that he might find her there. But she was 
occupied with visitors, and he merely said a few words of 
commonplace and went away. 

There were a great many visitors at the Parsonage that day ; 
some who came from the ordinary impulses of idleness, of 
civility, of kindness ; some who came on business, and one or 
two who came for pure gossip, and to talk over the crime and 
horror of the day. All, from whatever motives they came, 
talked of ‘it, and Christine felt as if she should go mad and be 
Phoebe Gilmore’s maniac companion if they did not go away 
and leave her, and cease their hideous conjecturing. The im- 
pression she gave to most of her visitors was, that she felt very 
little interest in the affair in any way, and that she was rathei 
cold and quiet in her manners when any sort of gossip was 
discussed. 

In the afternoon when Dr. Catherwood came again he 
eecir.ed of a different mind, and did not seek.an interview with 
her. He saw that by this time she had heard the news, and 
that his hope of telling if to her and softening the shock was 
over. He stayed a long time with Dr. Upham that afternoon, 
reading a new political pamphlet to him, and leaving him even 


310 


TWO YEARS LATER. 


more than ever cheered and diverted by his visit. He passed 
Christine on the stairs with his old half-affectionate, half-cheery 
smile, and went out into the street with a haggard and suffer- 
ing face. 

That evening the little Dean, nh Richfield, came and volun- 
teered to remain to tea. She had two or three more babies by 
this time, and as they had a great many teeth to get among 
them, and a great deal of croup and whooping-cough and 
measles and fever to go through, she did not enjoy them quite 
as much as she did the first one, and felt in fact a good deal 
bored by having to stay at home sp much and being waked up 
so many times at night. She was very fond of coming to see 
Christine and complaining of her troubles, as at first she had 
been very fond of coming to her and boasting of her pleasures. 
Christine was generally patience and gentleness itself with her ; 
in fact, she was so sympathetic she really felt the little woman 
was hardly used by fate in having such a host of duties to per- 
form for which she was no more fitted than a kitten. 

But this evening, her puny, whining troubles seemed con- 
temptible to Christine ; she could not offer anything but silence 
and endurance. She hoped that she would have thought it her 
duty to go home early to the children ; but it was ten o’clock 
before she said anything about returning to her nurserv ‘«res. 
She had just rung the bell for her carriage and was putting on 
her cloak, when it seemed to dawn upon her that Christine 
looked weary and unhappy. 

“ Now, Christine, dear,” she said, “ I am afraid t^lat I have 
bored you a little bit this evening. But really you can form 
no idea what a life mine is; and it seems very natural to us 
married women to come to you unmarried ones, who have no 
cares to weigh upon you, to get a little repose and quiet. My 
dear, if you should ever marry, you will know whai respon- 
sibilities life has ; you cannot have the least idea of it till 
you do.” 


TWO TEAKS LATER. 


311 


**I suppose not,” said Christine, with a faint smile. This 
seemed such supreme irony, she could not say anything else. 

As she went to the door with her and kissed her good-night 
upon the steps, a boy came in at the gate and approached her 
slowly. 

“ Do you want me ?” said Christine, as the boy stood looking 
at her stupidly. “ It is you, Tom ; is it ? Well, come up and 
tell me what it is.” 

Mrs. Dean got into the carriage and drove off, and Tom came 
up the steps. He was a dirty, ragged fellow, for whom Chris- 
tine had a kindness, and who had been a scholar of hers when 
younger. He always seemed shy of her ; but he had a very 
strong admiration for her, and thought in his clumsy way that 
if she should ever touch his arm or his hair with that beautiful 
white hand of hers, as she used to do sometimes, he should not 
know how to conduct himself he should be so excited. He 
never managed to speak above a whisper in her presence, and 
looked so stupid and confused whenever she addressed him, that 
she had almost given up saying anything to him beyond an 
unsuggestive How are you, Tom ? with her involuntarily sweet 
smile. He stood by the door struggling with his diffidence ; 
suddenly he plunged his hand into his pocket, and, drawing out 
a scrap of paper, held it towards her. 

“You mustn’t tell,” he faltered, “that I brought it to you; 
and I mustn’t either, the man said.” 

What man, Tom ?” said Christine, in a low tone, feeling 
her limbs giving way beneath her, and resting her hand against 
the door. 

“ The man down there,” he said, pointing in the direction 
of the mill-dam. “ He crawled out of the woods and called 
me. He’s very bad, I guess. He told me to bring it to you, 
and 1 mustn’t ever tell.” 

All tfiis was delivered in a thick whisper, with a choking of 
the breath between the pauses. 


812 


TWO YEARS LATER. 


“ And you never must,” said Christine, laying her hand upon 
his arm. “ Promise me, Tom, you never will. I have always 
liked you, and I believe you will do this thing for me.” 

“ You needn’t be afraid,” he stammered, in a tremor of con- 
fusion, starting down the steps. 

Christine went in the parlor to the light. Her heart was 
throbbing frightfully, and there was a cloud before her eyes. 
It was several minutes before she could read the few words 
scrawled upon the paper. They were very few, and there was 
no name ; there needed none ; she wanted no assurance who had 
sent for her. She sat down, stunned and trembling, and tried 
to be silent and to think. Her father’s b^ll rang, and glancing 
at the clock, she saw that the hour was past when she ordi- 
narily read prayers by his bed, and made the thousand minute 
arrangements for the night which recur so monotonously in the 
sick-room. 

“ You are late, Christine,” her father said, for the second 
time that day. His tone was very gentle and not reproachful ; 
only one of surprise that she could possibly have failed to 
anticipate him as she always did. 

It was easy to say the prayers ; her whole soul was one wild 
prayer ; but it was not so easy to spend the long hour that was 
needful in the adjustment of the apartment for the night, in 
the arrangement of innumerable meaningless details. When 
at last she stooped to kiss him, he put his hand upon her head, 
as he ever did, and said : 

Good-night, my child. God bless you always 1” 


MIDmGHT IN HAKBY’s OLD HOME. 


313 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

MIDNIGHT IN HARRy’s^LD HOME. 

“ In all the mansions of the house on high, 

Say not that Mercy has not one for him.” 

Holmes. 

The lamps were not burning in the streets of that night 

at twelve o’clock, for the moon was due, and it was not the 
fault of the municipal rulers if it did not shine. Therefore it 
was not surprising that of the four thousand souls in the town 
not one had any knowledge of, or interest in, the slight figure 
in the grey cloak that stole along in the thick shadow of the 
houses through the least frequented streets and out into the 
western suburbs, in the direction of the lonely mill. The town 
had been growing since the night Julian was dragged senseless 
out of the ice-covered pond, but it had grown away from it, 
in another direction ; and all this road was as lonely and as un- 
frequented as it was then, when Christine, then as now, hurried 
along it with a beating, anxious heart. She could hardly be- 
lieve the direction that the note had given her; but the only 
thing she could do was implicitly to follow it. The scene o^ 
the murder was not the most probable place in which 
to seek the murderer; perhaps this was the reason that she 
had been told to come to the miller’s house to meet him ; but it 
was a terrible place of rendezvous — were his nerves of iron 
that he could bear it ! 

She reached the limit of the fence that bounded the enclosure 
of the old place, and paused to listen. No one was following her ; 

14 


314 


MIDNIGHT IN HARllY’S OLD HOME. 


there was no sound but the rush of the water over the 
dam — 

“ The air was hushed and still and close 
As a sick man’s room, when he taketh repose 
An hour before death.” 

She pushed her way through a broken part of the fence, 
crossed the old garden — rank weeds, dry and brittle, breaking 
and crackling at every step. At last she found her way into 
what had once been the centre path of the garden, where the 
weeds were not so thick. She had avoided entering by the 
gate in the front of the house, not only because she felt this 
to be the more secret and safer way, but because she dreaded 
the sight of the old well, where, not twenty-four hours before, 
the brutal and revolting deed had been committed. She did 
not know exactl}^ where it stood ; it was long since she had 
been in this enclosure, but she fancied the well stood at the 
other side of the house, in view from the gate, if she had gone in 
that way. 

With a feeling of sudden horror, as if the scene of last night 
had been brought before her eyes, she found herself confronting 
the spot she had avoided. The long sweep of the well-pole was 
visible dimly against the sky, standing like a giant gallows over 
the broken curb and ruined well. The blood seemed to curdle 
in her veins. She could hardly persuade herself she did not 
hear the smothered cries for help; the curses, the blows, 
the deadly, fatal fall. 

The scene in the old mill, on that beautiful August evening 
years ago, mixed itself up strangely with this one of hei 
imagination. The thrill of horror with which she had watched 
helplessly the struggle between the boys, the mingled sense of 
relief and terror with which she had seen Julian triumph and 
heard poor Harry fall, all these things came back to her as 
vividly as if to-night’s sun had just gone down upon them. 
She had prayed inarticulately and instinctively for Julian’s 


MIDNIGHT IN IIARKY’s OLD HOME. 


315 


safety, as she watched them. . And Julian had been saved — for 
this — for shame and everlasting contempt — for a crime which 
made even her strong faith falter. Oh, that he instead of Harry 
had gone down! That the waves had closed over and choked 
his breath before it had polluted his whole life with falsehood— 
that his soul in its comparative innocence had been taken away 
Tom the evil to come! How should she meet him — how 
ouch the hand that had done such a fearful deed of wicked- 
ness? 

She turned her head away from the gloomy object that 
stretched across her path, and hurried towards the house. 

The neglected vines, that had nearly framed themselves 
across the porch, had since the morning been rudely torn away 
tc afford entrance for men and officers who had searched it 
from garret to cellar, and had gone away and pronounced it 
undisturbed for months. As she pushed open the door softly 
and made her way across the desolate kitchen, she thought of 
poor Phoebe in her narrow cell, and Richard mouldering in his 
lonely grave, and Harry lying above-ground for the last time 
to-night, a murdered, mangled corpse. She remembered the 
cheerful, well-kept room of old, the bright fire, the shining 
window-panes, the father’s easy content, the mother’s thrift and 
energy, the boy’s beauty and health ; this was all surely some 
frightful dream from which she should awake. 

She made her way carefully across the room with outstretched 
hands, feeling for the door that led up to the little kitchen 
chamber. Her hand touched the latch ; she lifted it and began 
to ascend the stairs — where Harry’s feet had climbed so often, 
where Phoebe’s energetic tread had so many times resounded. 
She did not feel fear, but a dazzling, unsettling sense of horror 
and of sin. 

The room was bare of furniture, but several boxes stood in it, 
and some rubbish lay upon the floor. The two dormer wim 
dows, open to the sky, admitted the faintest light, not much 


316 


MIDNIGHT IN HARRY’S OLD HOME. 


more than enough to show Christine where she stood, and what 
was within reach of her hand. A dark object in one corner 
below the window moved ; and yet, sure of it as she was, she 
heard no sound. She dared not speak; in fact, at that moment, 
she could not have commanded voice enough to articulate a 
word. She began to be afraid for herself, a thought that had 
not crossed her mind before. There was some living being in 
this room with her, this lonely, smothering plaee ; if it were 
Julian, he would speak; if it were he who had sent for her, he 
would know that she was come. 

Several minutes passed. The dark object in the corner, 
which Christine now distinctly discerned to be the figure of a 
man half-raised from the floor, did not stir a hair’s breadth. 

This figure seemed to her so much larger than she remem- 
bered Julian; she only longed for strength to go away; for 
when she tried to move, she found herself in a helpless and 
benumbed condition. The weakness of her limbs had come 
very suddenly, with the first doubt of Julian’s presence and the 
first throb of personal fear. At last she made a few hurried, 
uncertain steps towards the door, and then, through the giddy 
and wild fluttering of her nerves that almost deafened her, she 
heard her name pronounced. She stopped, and steadying 
herself by grasping the post of the door by which she stood, 
turned back her head and listened. After a moment it was 
repeated in a husky and strange voice. She looked towards 
the corner; with a groan the man had sunk down again upon 
the floor, and all was silent. 

* * ♦ ♦ ^ 

An hour later, Christine was standing alone upon the 
porch of Dr. Catherwood’s cottage. A light was shining 
through the half-closed shutters of the little parlor, and, putting 
aside the vines and looking in, she saw Dr. Catherwood pacing 
up and down the room. She could not see his face, for the 
light was low; she could only conjecture from his restless 


MIDNIGHT IN HARRy’s OLD HOME. 


3)7 


movements that some deep anxiety was keeping him from 
sleep. lie started as she touched the window lightly, and 
coming forward quickly, opened it. 

The window was a casement that opened to the floor ; he 
gave a look of surprise as he beheld Christine standing before 
it. She entered hastily, and, pushing the window to behind 
her, said, in the breatliless voice of one who has an overpower- 
ing fear and wish, and who forgets eftects and preliminaries and 
explanations : 

“ There is not a moment to be lost — it will be daylight soon 
— some place must be found — he is hiding in the miller’s 
house — and that is madness, you must see.” 

“You forget I do not know what you are talking of,’^ 
said her companion, huskily. 

Christine saw on his face the look of sickening pain that she 
had, seen when she told him of Julian’s theft; he must have 
said this only to gain time. She knew that, as well as this, 
was no surprise to him ; but it seemed as if the certainty drove 
home a stab that staggered him. 

“You do not guess ?” she said with a shudder, sinking down 
into a chair. “Oh, do not make me tell you — it is too awful.” 

“ No, you need not tell me,” he said, turning from her and 
walking once or twice across the floor. Christine bowed her 
face down upon the table before her and burst into tears. 

“Christine,” whispered her companion, bending over her, 
struck with remorse at his own share in this, having made her 
speak when he should have sustained her and forgotten him- 
self. “ Christine, poor child ! forgive me ; I know it all. 1 
want your help — you must not give way — restrain yourself, 
and let me tell you what to do — there is no time to lose.”^ 

“ No, no — there was no time to lose, but I have lost it. I 
cannot do anything — I have come to the end of my endurance 
— I — I am worse than helpless — I have no strength — no mind- 
no thought.” 


818 


MIDNIGHT IN HARRY’S OLD HOME. 


It was too true, her strength and fortitude had given way, 
and she was helpless; she had staggered under her terrible 
burden, till, throwing it into stronger hands, she had sunk down 
fainting and undone. Dr. Catherwood stooped over her with a 
tenderness that was almost agony ; he pressed his lips upon her 
hair, and grasped her slender wrists, and tried to draw her 
hands back from her face, reassuring and comforting her with 
broken words of endearment and of sympathy. At last the 
paroxysm of grief passed, and exhausted and almost fainting, 
her head fell back upon his shoulder and her eyes closed. That 
poor, tear-stained, pale, and wretched face — it wrung his heart to 
look down at it. He folded his arms about her, and carrying 
her to a sofa, laid her gently on it. For a few moments he 
thought that it was worse than fainting; he forgot the terrible 
hurry and the coming daylight in his anxiety to feel the beating 
of her heart again, and see the light of consciousness in her 
half-closed eyes. At last she opened them and fixed them 
on him. 

“ Go to him,” she whispered. “ He is wounded — he is very 
ill, and needs you.” 

“I will go at once,” he answered, rising ; “and, Christine, 
try to dismiss all anxiety for him if you can. I will save him 
if he can be saved.” 


A DEATH-BED. 


319 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

A DEATH-BED. 

“ Quls telia fando 

Temperet i lacrymis ?" 

ViKO. iEN. n. 6. 

It was a dark, still night again ; the third terrible and oppres* 
sive night since this new trial had begun. In the long room 
that faced the parlor, in Dr. Catherwood’s little house, Christine 
sat by the bedside of Julian, watching what she knew, ana 
what Dr. Catherwood knew, were his last moments. He had 
sent Harry into eternity, but Harry had sworn with his dying 
breath he should follow him before many days were over. 

It had been a fierce and desperate reckoning between them. 
None ever knew the chance word or threat that had lighted the 
fatal quarrel. Harry had fallen, the victim as ever, but had 
left his revenge assured. Stubborn, silent, Julian was meeting 
his fate. His sufferings were so great there was no chance to 
talk to him of preparation ; all that could be done was to alle- 
viate them as far as practicable and save the moments for him, 
if possibly at the end there might be some quiet for repentance. 
He had suffered great agony in the removal to where he now 
was ; it had been accomplished, though, with entire secresy and 
safety, and no one guessed, save the woman who was Dr. 
Catherwood’s only servant, that the open^ smiling, pleasant cot- 
tage held the murderer whom all the town were hunting for 
Christine had come down at night, across the fields, and had 
not been seen by any one, and had gone back in the grey 
dawn before there was a waking soul in . 


520 


A DEATH-BED. 


This enforced stillness and darkness and secresy made the sick- 
room doubly awful ; the sight of Julian’s sufferings, and the 
certainty of their end, would have made it terrible enough, but 
the constant fear that disgrace and punishment might invade it, 
added to its gloom a thousand shades of blackness. 

It was eleven o’clock. The room was still as if vacant, save 
for the labored and irregular breath of the sufferer on the bed ; 
Christine, with one arm beneath his pillow, knelt beside him, 
trying to ease the agony of his respirations by a change of 
attitude ; Dr. Catherwood, with his hand upon the wrist that 
was lying on the coverlet relaxed and almost pulseless, was 
looking in his face with keen and breathless scrutiny ; the 
woman beside them held the shaded lamp so that it fell upon 
his features. 

There was no fear now of troubling him by its glare ; the 
blindness of death was creeping fast over his open eyes — the 
dimness of the dark prison was already closing round his senses.' 
The great drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead and 
upon his lips ; a harsh expression of suffering settled round his 
mouth, a livid color spread itself over his face ; there was no 
room to doubt, the dissolution of soul, and body was at hand. 
Sinning soul and polluted body, the one to be hurried into high 
and irrevocable eternity, the other to be laid in the corrupting 
grave waiting for the resurrection of condemnation, the reward 
of shame and everlasting contempt — the inheritance of those 
who have despised salvation ; and not one prayer, not one 
moment for thought and retrospect and penitence — only the 
dreadful struggle, only dying, revolting, tortured nature. 
Christine had seen one death-bed before; how many features 
were repeated here ; how much of that hopeless scene came 
back to add to the gloom of this ! 

Presently, across the darkness of the room (for, excepting 
when the light of the shaded lamp fell upon the bed, there was 
utter darkness), there came the gleam of a lantern past the 


A DEATH-BED. 


32 ] 


window, left open to give air to the suffocating sufferer, and tho 
stillness was broken by the sound of steps upon the walk out- 
side, and men’s voices, and a pause before the door. 

The thrill that this disturbance gave to those within was 
indescribable. A moment before, the awe was of another and 
a grander kind ; the thought of eternity, even in its form of 
dread, ennobles the mind ; this sudden shock of human fear, 
of worldly panic, of the commonplace and tangible, rushing in 
upon the unknown and the vast, created a reaction that was 
very painful. Dr. Catherwood started to his feet and motioned 
Rebecca to the door. Christine felt that the tremor that 
passed through her communicated some dim idea of danger to 
the dying boy whom she supported. She felt his breath choke 
for a moment; he raised his head. The woman had taken the 
lamp with her in her alarm. Dr. Catherwood had followed ha* 
quickly to the door ; they w’ere both outside it now, parleying 
with the new comers. Christine was alone in darkness with 
the dying. She felt him sinking back upon her heavily. He 
gasped : 

“They’re coming after me — they’re here. Christine, you 
mustn’t leave me — you must save me.” 

There was a spasmodic movement — a sudden clenching of 
the hands, a sudden relaxation ; the head fell back, the breath 
came with a low, wailing gasp, and then came no more. Chris- 
tine’s shoulder pillowed a lifeless corpse ; the awful moment of 
mystery had come in the silence and darkness while she alone 
was by him. 

She knelt, chilled with awe, while the human voices outside 
mixed strangely with the unearthly voices that her soul seemed 
to hear in the dark, still air above her where the last breath of 
the dead boy floated. “Christine, you must save me.” 
“ Promise me, promise me on your knees that you will live for 
him.” Helena’s dying, livid face and white attenuated hands 
seemed so actual and so vivid to her that she felt every moment 

14 * 


322 


A DEATH-BED. 


a horror of their touch. What was she saying now ? — welcom. 
ing her lost boy to his eternal woe. Bars, bars black and huge 
across the deep blackness of the sky, seemed to have risen up to 
keep those two lost souls apart. Christine’s heart died with 
fear, longing to turn away and not to see ; but the eyes of the soul 
cannot be shut. She could not pray. The moments seemed 
like days, while she was kneeling frozen into stone, fighting 
away that vision. She could hear the steps of those who had 
come in, on the floor above and through the hall. She knew 
they were searching the house, looking for him whom she held 
in her arms; but that seemed the unreal, these faces gathering 
blackness in the air above her seemed the real. 

At last — the spell was broken — the door opened, and 
Rebecca entered, bringing a dim light. Christine staggered to 
her feet. The woman motioned her quickly to a door, opening 
into a lobby, that stood half open. 

“They insist on coming in,” she said, hastily, taking her 
place beside the bed, and drawing the light away so that it 
should not fall upon it. 

Christine mechanically obeyed her, and half drew the door 
shut after her. The men from the hall entered by the other 
door ; the foremost one was saying in a manner of apology : 

“You know. Dr. Catherwood, this seems rather hard to be 
intruding on you at a time like this ; but people will talk, 
and since it had^ot round that there had been some one seen 
coming out of here at night, why it seemed just as well to 
satisfy them and go through the house. A man respected in 
the town like yon. Dr. Catherwood, of course don’t fall under 
any suspicion of harboring the criminal, but it might have 
been without your knowledge, and you see 

“Of course; I understand you,” said Dr. Cather^\ood, in a 
firm, low tone. “You have done perfectly right; all the other 
parts of the house are searched ; in this room, I will give you 
my oath, there is no one but my son, now lying at the point of 


A DEATH-BED. 


323 


death, and the woman who is in attendance on him. If you can 
spare me the pain of disturbing him by the search, I will thank 
you; if not, then let me ask you to make the time as short as 
possible.” 

The men, touched by his tone and manner, and by the glance 
they had of the figure on the bed in the dim and solemn light, 
turned back and went into the hall, followed by Dr. Cather- 
wood. They were talking to him as they paused in the lobby 
into which Christine had retreated. She shrank into the 
shade, and heard with bewildered incredulity their words and 
those of Dr. Catherwood. One man, apparently the oflicer, for 
he seemed to be the spokesman, was saying, as they approached 
the lobby, that it was a disagreeable task, and he hoped Dr. 
Catherwood had no ill feeling towards them for intruding ; he 
only wanted to do his duty, and so he must ask him to repeat, 
on oath, the statement he had made just then within. 

Dr. Catherwood then repeated, on oath and with distinct- 
ness, that the room out of which they had just come, con- 
tained no one besides those named by him before — his son, 
Francis Catherwood, aged nineteen, recently returned from Ger- 
many, now lying dangerously ill of haemorrhage ; and the woman, 
Rebecca Alstan, employed in attendance on him. The man 
bowed in silence and moved towards the door with his two 
subordinates ; there was something in Dr. Catherwood’s manner 
that made farther questioning impossible, oflicial or personally in- 
quisitive ; he occupied a position among his townsmen that made 
these petty Officers feel their duty in this case an involuntary 
impertinence. Whatever there was in Dr. Catherwood’s state- 
ment that would have staggered them coming from a less 
respected man, seemed unquestionable from him. 

After a few words of rather clumsy condolence and apology, 
they left the house; Rebecca started up from her position by 
the bedside as she heard the outer door close, and hurried into 
the hall ; Christine, half unconscious of what she did, went back 


324 


A DEATH-BED. 


into the room, standing in Rebecca’s place at the head of the 
bed, as if the poor wretch lying on it still needed an attendant. 
Rebecca had left the light upon the table; it was shining 
faintly now upon the bed. 

Dr. Catherwood entered from the hall, and stopped midway 
in the room, for he saw the face upon the bed in its ghastly and 
settled sleep. His expression had been very haggard and worn 
before he caught that sight ; it changed slowly, very slowly, into 
something worse and of deeper suffering. He almost staggered 
to the bed, and, resting his hand upon the foot of it, gazed long at 
the lifeless body. At last he raised his eyes and met Christine’s 
fixed upon him with the expression of a person just recovering 
consciousness gaspingly, after a hideous dream. 

“You do not mean,” she said, almost in a whisper, with her 
wide open eyes fixed upon him, “ that what you told those men 
is true ?” 

“ Yes, Christine,” he answered in a hollow voice, leaning 
forward, his hands clasped upon the foot of the bed. “ It is 
true — that poor boy is mine — your unhappy sister was my wife, 
God forgive us both ! We were two children — two wilful, wicked 
children. We have gone through deep waters since those days.” 

The long, dead past seemed to have come back to him, some 
sudden revelation of memory ; he leaned his head down in his 
hands and was silent. When he looked up, Christine had 
fallen on her knees beside the bed, and had hidden her face in her 
hands ; but when he approached her, she started up and shrank 
away from him. 

“ I want to go away from here,” she said in a smothered, 
agitated voice, making her way towards the door with trepida- 
tion. 

“ One word, Christine,” he said, in a tone of supplication, 
putting his hand out to stop her ; but she avoided him and was 
gone before he could say another word. He turned back, sank 
into a chair, and covered his face with his hands. 


DUST TO DUST. , 


825 


CHAPTER XLV. 

DUST TO DUST. 

•* The slumberer’s mound grows fresh and green. 

Then slowly disappears ; 

The mosses creep, the grey stones lean, 

Earth hides his days and years ; 

But long before the once loved name 
Is sunk or worn away, 

No lip the silent dust may claim 
That pressed the breathing clay,” 

The bell was tolling, “ a slow set bell tbe grey, dull November 
afternoon was drawing to its close. Tbe first sound of it had 
fallen upon Christine’s heart like a heavy, deadening blow ; she 
was standing by her father’s bedside when it began to ring, and 
she started hurriedly to leave the room. 

“Don’t go away, my child,” he said, feebly, reaching out his 
hand. For two days he had been far weaker and worse than 
Christine had ever seen him before. 

“ I will not go, father,” she said, in a smothered voice, taking 
his hand with a caress, and then going to the window. 

This window overlooked the garden and the churchyard. 
The leaves had fallen from the trees, and there was nothing to 
hide the sight of the funeral train as it entered the gate and 
paused at the church door, met by the priest in his white robes 
with the open book in his hand. Christine stood leaning her 
face against the pane and gazing at the solemn sight in stupefied 
and dull despair. This double death, this strange truth and 
apparent falsehood, bewildered her and made her uncertain of 
all things save the terrors of eternity ; and on them her mind 


320 


DUST TO DUST. 


had dwelt till it had become benumbed. That bell that had 
just stopped tolling, and had called so many people into 
church, was acting its part in the great falsehood ; and the 
minister, with the solemn words of burial on his lips, was help- 
•ing to cover up the crime ; the coffin lid, the pall with its heavy, 
mournful folds — what brave and mocking' hypocrisies they were! 
And yet, what was false, except the life in which for so many years 
she had had part! That body, over whom the priest was say- 
ing holy words, was the body of tbe only son of him who 
walked behind it with such a haggard face. The plate that 
bore the words — 

“Francis Catherwood, 

Born at Strasbourg, Oct. 19th, 18 — , 

Died at , November lUh, 18 — ,” 

told the truth ; the lips that had said Julian Upham all these 
years had told the lie. 

And yet, while 

“ All the congregation sang 
A Christian psalm for him,” 

while consecrated ground was broken to receive his body, his 
soul — black with the crime of murder, stained with a thousand 
sins of inclination and of choice — was far beyond the reach of 
prayers. The kind friends of him who was the only mourner, 
fancied they stood beside the coffin of a stranger, one long 
absent from his father’s home, only returned to it to die ; when, 
in reality, its lid covered a face that had been familiar to old 
and young in the town, before sin and suffering had effaced the 
last traces of youth and fairness from it. 

The father’s high name and honor had been the son’s shield 
dying and in death. No word of doubt or of suspicion wen 
abroad ; that Dr. Catherwood had a son living, had been a 
married man, excited wonder. But there had been nothing in 
his life among them to justify any one in making his conceal- 


DUST TO DUST. 


S21 


ment of it a reproach or scandal. Generous of sympathy and 
hindness to others, he had always maintained a reserve about 
that which concerned himself and his past history, that had 
rather given the impression he might some day appear in a 
different light. No one could blame him that he had chosen 
to be silent when he had never made any pretence of openness. 
The explanation that he gave to the few friends who came to 
him in this trial, was very simple and concise, and meant for the 
ear of the world, which in due course it reached. 

This son of an early marriage had been separated from him 
for years by unavoidable circumstances ; had lived among the 
family of his mother, who had died while he was still a child, 
and had earnestly requested he should be brought up by 
them. He had received word from them to meet the boy, who 
arrived from Germany, and was brought to his father’s house only 
to die. He had inherited pulmonary weakness from his mother, 
and agorravating circumstances had hastened the disease. 

However much further friends and gossips desired to go, they 
never ventured beyond that limit, for Dr. Catherwood under- 
stood, better than most men, governing conversation, and hold, 
ing the minds of those with whom he talked .in check. It is 
rather a delicate matter to ask any man who his wife was, who 
has been dead a dozen or so of years, and what the aggravating 
circumstances were which hastened his child’s decease. From 
these materials, which were strictly all that any one was pos- 
sessed of, there was built up a theory, which, in a little while, 
took the proportions of a family history, and which sounded 
very much as follows : Dr. Catherwood, travelling abroad when 
very young, had seen and fallen in love with a beautiful young 
German girl, the daughter of a watchmaker, who had married 
him, borne him one child, and diea, requesting on her death-bed 
that her child might be brought up in her. own country and by 
her own family. Dr. Catherwood, too generous to disregard 
her wish, and too refined to live in the watchmaker’s family 


328 


DUST TO DUST. 


him&elf, had settled a handsome annuity upon the child and 
given him up to them. The “aggravating circumstances” 
were variously stated. Some said the watchmaker had proved 
a villain, and had maltreated the boy while he benefited by the 
annuity ; others suspected that the boy himself had not turned 
out well, and that he had been sent to the father to reform 
when his health was deeply injured by his reckless habits 
while it was imagined by some that the voyage had been a very 
trying one, and that the lad’s ignorance and inexperience had 
subjected him to much exposure by the way. 

All this was circulated freely in the town, and the result 
was, more interest than ever felt in the favorite doctor, and 
more people present at the church on the day of his son’s 
burial than often came together for a week-day service. Indeed 
this new topic almost superseded that which ten days ago had. 
been so absorbing, and poor Harry seemed in the way to be 
forgotten and unavenged. People had settled down into the 
belief that the murder had been committed by some rough 
sailor comrade, hanging about him with the hope of plundering 
him of the wages of his last long voyage, and escaped beyond 
pursuit hours before the murder was discovered. Everything 
proper and energetic seemed to have been done, and, as yet, 
with no result ; the story grew to be an old one, and people 
lost their zest about it. They grew to be certain, in their own 
minds, that the murderer was hundreds of miles out at sea by 
this time, little suspecting that they had buried him with honors 
in the churchyard of St. Philip’s. 

“ For whom do they ring that bell, my child ?” said the old 
Rector, feebly, turning his head upon the pillow in the direction 
of the window. 

“Don’t you remember, father,” returned Christine, in a 
husky voice, “ I told you about Dr. Gather wood’s son ?” 

“ Oh, yes, 1 recollect,” he answered, with a sigh ; “ I am 


DUST TO DUST. 


329 


always giving you the trouble to repeat ; my memory is sharing 
the debility of my frame, I see. But this son — it does not 
surprise me. I always believed he had a history ; he never 
showed a disposition to be candid. Poor Catherwood ! I doubt 
not there has been suffering — he interested me deeply from the 
first. He has such an appreciation of domestic pleasures and 
such strong powers of affection, that it must have been some- 
thing very stern that kept him from this boy, just at the ago to 
be a solace and pleasure to him. Ah ! It seems to explain to 
me the deep interest that he always took in our poor Julian.” 

Dr. Upham’s voice sank ; Christine knew he would say no 
more. Whenever any allusion to his grandson escaped him, it 
was followed by a sudden and painful silence. 

This silence Christine broke by a low, involuntary moan ; 
she had listened to the deep, solemn roll of the organ, and she 
almost fancied that she heard the full responses of the people 
and the strong voice of the minister as he pronounced the 
prayers; presently there came a lull and then a tramp of feet 
along the aisle, and they came out from the side door of the 
church, following the corpse to the broken sod and the fresh 
gravel heap below Helena’s grave. Christine sank down on her 
knees and tried to follow the prayers ; it was not till the grating 
sound struck her ear, of the ropes against the coffin and the 
scattered gravel rattling on it, as they lowered it down into the 
earth, that she gave that low cry, and shuddering and sobbing, 
hurried out of the room. 

That poor sinner whom they were burying out of sight, was 
her little orphaned charge, her darling Julian — the yellow-haired 
boy whom she had held tight against her heart while they 
buried his poor mother, not ten feet from where they were laying 
him down now.- All the sin, the pollution, the punishment, 
was forgotten ; the natural human grief was breaking out, and 
sobbing and shuddering upon her bed, Chnstine was in a safer and 
beter condition of mind than she had been for many days before. 


330 


A LETTER. 


CHAPTER XLVL 

A LETTER. 

“If In his cheek unholy blood 

Burned for one youthful hour, * 

’Twas but the flushing of the bud 
That blooms a milk-white flower,” 

Holmes. 

Two days passed ; the Rector wondered that Dr. Catherwood 
had not yet remembered him and overcome his grief enough to 
pay him his accustomed visit; Christine wondered how she 
should meet him, and what the next step must be. She did 
not conjecture very much about it. Even now she had the 
feeling, from long habit, of depending upon him for placing 
their relations rightly. 

But every ring at the bell, every foot upon the stair, gave 
her a strange sensation of excitement, and brought the question 
to her mind, “Can I meet him calmly now?” and every assur- 
ance that it was not he, found her a little weaker and less 
nerved to meet him. 

Dr. Upham needed him very much ; he had become de- 
pendent on his daily visit, and his two last nights had been 
very restless ; he said more than once to Christine that he 
thought it would be best to send down a messenger to the 
cottage. 

“Wait an hour or two; see if he does not come,” she sai 1 
soothingly ; and in that way she pleaded off till twilight. 

She had gone out into the hall for the purpose of summoning 
Ann to go down to the Doctor’s cottage, when she met Ann 
with a letter in her hand 


A LETTER. 


331 


“Dr. Catherwood’s man just brought this for you, Miss 
Christine,” she said, and Christine turned silently back into her 
own room, wondering that she had not thought that this would 
be the way before; it was very certain to her, before she read 
the letter, that she should not be called upon to meet Dr. 
Catherwood again. She lit a candle slowly, and sat down to 
read it at a table upon which there were pens and ink and a 
desk full of other letters. There was no fire in the room and it 
was very chilly, but she did not feel it at all ; she felt burning 
hot, and her hands were feverish and unsteady as she broke 
the seal : 

“ No doubt you have expected before this some explanation 
from me, some palliating story of the long hypocrisy that has 
just come to an end. I have not much to tell you that you do 
not know or may not guess. I do not anticipate working any 
change in your feelings towards me, but I will go through the 
form of telling you that I do not blame myself as much as you 
blame me, and that I am certain some time you will look back 
to this and say your horror and aversion were misplaced. Your 
sister lies dead and silent in the churchyard near your home, 
Christine; I shall henceforth be as silent to you and be further 
off than she. I do not accuse her. I do not reproach the 
dead ; she has put on immortality, and I am only now a mor- 
tal man ; the most holy Judge eternal will decide between 
us in the world to come. It is years since I have had a vin- 
dictive feeling in my heart. Forgiveness has been more the 
habit of my mind than the expression of my lips ; but with lip 
and pen, and in every mode of reparation possible to me, I 
have committed myself to it. I would have died for her boy. 
I lived for him, as you know, though he hated me as if his 
mother’s soul were animating him. Sometimes I wonder how 
it could have been, when I loved that baby with such tenderness, 
when I loved the mother with such passion. 


332 


A LETTER, 


“But that was long ago. The farther I go back, the more 
self-reproach there is, and it is right you should hear that. 

“ I was not twenty when I married ; we were both children. 
Helena’s character, if I can give it to you dispassionately, was 
a singularly unhappy one to be committed to the life that lay 
before us. She was totally without discipline ; and she had 
lived in a home of religious faith without imbibing a single 
principle of religion. I cannot account for it; as far as I ever 
saw into her heart, it was all heathen. When I first began to 
realize her after we were married, I fancied her bright and 
volatile and without strong feelings. There was a bubble and 
sparkle of vanity and coquetry upon the surface that made me 
think the tide was shallow. But it was the bubble and sparkle 
of a maelstrom ; a stronger nature I have never seen ; a strength 
of selfishness and a power of hatred that I have never met in 
man or woman since ; and a power of love, too, which hei 
absorbing passion for her child revealed. But I did not know 
that it was there ; I never was able to call it out. I think she 
fancied that she loved me when we married-, my affection 
for her was unbounded, but it was jealous and exacting, like a 
boy’s affection. She never understood me; her love had the 
very briefest existence. We had not been a month in the gay 
society of Paris before I found she was dissatisfied, wearied by 
the hours we spent together, and always seeking for excitement, 
and sometimes excitement not innocent and justifiable for a 
young wife to seek. The discovery 'was maddening to me, 
undisciplined as herself, and loving her with an unreasoning 
love. 

“There begins the sin. I have a terrible recollection of the 
storm that succeeded the night that she first openly defied my 
jealousy and showed me her indifference. My conduct after 
that justified all she could have said about it. I was a madman. 
I made every moment of her life a torture to her, as mine was 
to me. I forbade her society. I watched her day and night ; 


A LETTEE. 


333 


bnt a word from her would have changed all. She never spoke 
it, hardening herself against me, and, with all a woman’s keen 
devices, goading and taunting and tormenting me. I think she 
hated me beyond all power of language to express, and I loved 
her, even then, to madness and folly. 

“ That was a terrible honeymoon — such conflicts make deep 
marks upon the soul ; we threw the whole strength of our 
youth into the battle, and that first year added ten to both our 
lives. I never saw beauty fade so rapidly as hers ; and, for 
myself, people looked at me with wonder when I went into the 
world making a pretence of nonchalance and gaiety. I look 
back to this insane and sinful time with unspeakable remorse. 
There came a little truce to this at last ; before I was twenty, 
one I was a father, and, in her danger and her suffering, Helena 
instinctively turned to my love for support. I fancied that I 
had won her back; the days were full of perfect bliss spent 
beside her and her baby in that quaint old town, where the bells 
rang softly day and night over the quiet houses. 

“After that I cease to blame myself, for she knew I loved 
her, and was ready to give up everything for her and for the 
child. She could have done anything with me then ; I had 
forgotten all, though she had not. With the return of health and 
strength, there came the old distrust and coldness — the first 
mixing with the world showed me my happiness had been 
nothino: but a dream. But I had learned wisdom, and I deter- 
mined to forbear. For my child’s sake as well as for my own, I 
resolved to be gentle with her, and to win her affection by my 
constant care for her. But the love that we do not return has 
little value foT* us : she was too careless of my wishes, too 
anxious for admiration, not to outrage my feelings every mo- 
ment. She loved her child with such a jealous fondness, that 
she resented every caress I gave him, and fancied that the 
change in me towards her resulted solely from my desire to 
keep him with me. It was impossible for her to forget; every 


334 


A LETTER. 


angry word I had ever spoken, I believe, lived in her mind dis- 
tinctly to the moment of her death. It is useless to give you 
the details of that which followed ; she had evil advisers; there 
was wrong on both sides ; she had never understood me ; she 
never could forgive ; she left me. You may have heard some 
of the troubles that succeeded that. I was human ; I had not 
vet learned self-control, and the child was mine as well as hers. 
I do not blame myself for the steps I took, though events have 
proved them to have been unwise. The law gave him to me, 
and then followed the years of banishment and concealment 
that cost her her health and comfort and respectability, killed 
the last throb of love I felt for her, and destroyed the last hope 
of rescuinor the child from her influence. 

O 

“Many years before I found him here in , I had 

given him up in intention to her. I doubt whether I could 
have had the heart to force him from her even if my search had 
been successful at the first ; but I longed so to see him, to hold 
him in my arms once again, that for three years after I lost 
sight of them I gave myself up to the pursuit. - 

“ A fortune came to me from Virginia, burdened with the 
condition of taking the testator’s name. That aided me in de- 
stroying the traces of my former condition. How successful I 
was in the change is proved by the many quiet and unsuspected 
years I have spent in . 

“The excitement of travel and constant change of scene had 
deadened somewhat the sharpness of my regrets and longings, 
and the philosophy of the Divine Benefactor had emptied my 
heart of the last taint of bitterness, when I so strangely found 
myself with ray boy in my arms beside his mother’s grave. It 
was long before I could determine how to meet this strange 
emergency — whether to claim the boy and take him from you, 
as I had every right to do, or leaving him with you, to declare 
myself, which I knew was tantamount to another separation from 
him, for a few days had served to show me the light in which 


A LETTER. 


335 


the boy’s father was regarded, and the bitter rejection that his 
claims would have received. Gentle as you are, Christine, I 
had a feeling that you would have had no mercy for youf 
sister’s execrated husband, and the result has shown me that I 
was not wrong. 

“I hated this hypocrisy. I began it with a regard only for 
your happiness and the peace of your father’s old years. I 
doubted, from month to month, whether I was equal to the 
sacrifice. Finally it came to be no sacrifice, and the greatest 
dread of my life became that I m.ust some time let you know 
to whom you had given your confidence and kindness. It be 
came a tangled web — it had better never have been begun. 

“You know the rest. You can judge whether in any other 
position I could have done my duty more fully to the boy ; 
whether by outraging his dead mother’s wishes, taking him 
from the home where there seemed the most promise of bene- 
fiting him, tearing him from the love of one better and ten- 
derer to him than his mother, I could have done a juster and 
wiser thing. It wopld have been easier to myself, happier for 
me in a thousand ways ; what it would have been for him, I 
have not sight clear enough to determine. 

“ So let me leave this painful subject, never, probably, to be 
revived again in words, for I owe no explanation to any other 
human being. I leave it in your hands to say what m.ay seem 
wise to you to Dr. Upham. If you think best not to disturb 
his few remaining moments of life by a shock so great as this 
would be, you may present my departure to him as the result 
of complications occasioned by my son’s death ; and you may 
say to him that nothing save the necessity of instant departure 
from these scenes would have made it possible for me to leave 
thus abruptly a friend so valued. 

“ I have longed to see his face once more, but I have judged 
it best (as you will not find it difficult to understand) to end 
my connexion with your house at once. In saying such a 


336 


JL LETTER. 


farewell as this is, I cannot feel that it is ended without revert* 
mg a moment to our past relations — a thing which under other 
circumstances would, I know, have seemed unwarrantable ; but 
you will understand this to be said without presumption, and 
with the calmness of a man who feels his part in life is ended, 
and who judges dispassionately of what has gone before, and 
knows that there is nothing to come after. 

“ I have no doubt you have long seen reason to feel thankful 
that you kept faith with Julian’s mother. Your ardent and 
childlike affection for me deceived you ; I have not been blind 
to the change that has come, nor could I have wished it other- 
wise. I have not one reproach to make, I have no feeling of 
bitterness. You were a child, and you did not understand 
yourself; I should have been wiser, and estimated more truly 
the emotion you evinced. To have hoped that that young 
feeling would have outlived years of silence and the shock of 
such a discovery as this, would have been folly. I have not 
been disappointed, for my judgment warned me that it would 
be so, with only one exception : I was not. prepared for what 
your face told me when you left me. I had fancied there would 
be a struggle, that past feelings of kindness would have revived 
their force for the moment. But — and it is the only wrong in 
my whole life of which I feel any sting — if I had any claim 
to talk of forgiveness towards you^ I would say, I forgave your 
unspoken resentment, as I know you have, ere this, forgiven 
me all the unintentional evil which I have brought into your life. 

“ I thank Heaven that with me disappears the last link that 
connected your life with the sins and misfortunes of those who 
have gone. I feel a satisfaction in remembering your youth, 
and your still fresh capacities for happiness. You are free now ; 
you have borne the yoke of duty with a most perfect heroism, 
God bless you, and all who may make you happy. 

“Edward Catherwood.” 


A JUNE TWILIGHT.^ 


a«7 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

A JUNE TWILIGHT. 

“ Was never paj'ne but It had joye at last 
In the fayre morrowe.” 

It was a soft June evening, almost twiliglit; but the fading of 
June days is so gradual, it is difficult to say where day ends 
and night begins. Christine had been leaning long over the 
rough bridge under which the mill-stream rushed, listening to 
the monotonous melody, and watching the darkening of the 
water as the sunset died away. But she thought little of the 
water and of the sunset; she was struggling with herself — prido 
and reason against the yearning of her heart and the clamor 
of an hourly growing misery. 

Her father was dead ; home was now lonely, lonely beyond 
expression ; and the silent months had gone on without bringing 
her any news of Dr. Catherwood. She had written to him 
when her father died, and had sent for Rebecca and committed 
the letter to her care. The woman did not know his address, 
might not know it for months to come, but if she found it out 
slie would forward it to him. She was grim and silent, and 
intercourse wdth her was always personally painful to Christine. 
The poor girl asked her faintly to let her know if she should 
hear from him, and the woman went away saying something 
below her breath, that might or might not be a promise. 

Christine hoped it was, and for months lived upon the hope. 
She often passed the cottage and looked wistfully in at its closed 
windows, hoping to catch sight of Rebecca somewhere about 

15 


938 


A JUXE TWILIGHT. 


the house or garden ; but Rebecca was never to be seen, and 
from no one else was there any hope of hearing anything. Dr. 

Catherwood was not forgotten in , but no one was in 

correspondence with him ; no one knew anything more than 
that he was travelling in Europe, and seldom if ever wrote 
to . 

Anxiety often reaches its climax without any perceptible 
acceleration from circumstances. That day Christine found 
herself more heavy-hearted than ever, and that evening she 
felt ready to endure any mortification and humiliation rather 
than not hear from Rebecca what she knew of Dr. Catherw^ood. 
Her resolution taken, she hurried across the dam, and did not 
stop till she reached the gate that led to the cottage. If she 
paused before opening it, it was only because her hand trembled 
so she could not lift the latch. The twilight had grown pretty 
thick, and she could only see, as she went down the path, that 
the windows were dark as ever, and the porch overgrown with 
untended vines. Her black dress brushed against the shrubs 
and weeds that had crept into the path, and the long grass hid 
the flower-beds that used to make the little garden bright. 

She hurried round the corner of the house; there were a 
good many trees standing close to it, and it seemed very dark. 
A side entrance stood open : she knocked faintly ; no one 
answwed; again, and after a moment of silence, she went in. 
Half way through the passage, a door opened opposite her, 
and she paused. It was Rebecca, who had heard her and was 
coming from the sitting-room which she occupied now alto- 
gether, a small nondescript apartment opening out of the 
dining-room. 

“ Who is it?” she said, in a voice that made Christine want 
to bo nobody. But she made an effort and said who she was, 
and then added, after a silence : 

“ I came to know — to ask — that is — did you ever send my 
letter to Dr. Catherwood ?” 


X JUNE TWILIGHT. 


339 


The woman said she Jiad, ana was horribly silent again. By 
this time Christine was a little more under the influence of her 
anxiety, and a little less under the influence of her shyness. 

“ I want to know if you have heard from him ?” she said. 

Rebecca probably looked at her, but it was so dark she could 
not see her ; her tone was very disagreeable as she said : 

“ Heard from him ? About what ?” 

“About himself,” said Christine, a little impatiently. “I 
asked you to let me know if you heard from him, and you knew 
I was anxious.” 

“ That’s your mistake ; I didn’t know anything of the kind,” 
she returned, tartly. 

“Was he well — where was he — and had he received my let* 
ter?” questioned Christine. 

“ He hasn’t written,” returned the woman, coldly ; “ so 1 
can’t say whether he’s got your letter or no.” 

“ Then you haven’t heard ?” she said, ready to cry. 

“Well, one can hear without getting letters sometimes, can’t 
one ?” she retorted, with a sort of viciousness. 

“ From whom have you heard from him — he is not ill ?” fal- 
tered Christine, in a voice that told even the spinster Rebecca 
the story of her heart. 

Rebecca made a motion, a gesture of pointing to the door, 
to which Christine had her back. 

She started and turned round quickly ; some one stood in the 
doorway ; in her agitation she could not distinguish who, but a 
sudden frightened, smothered feeling made her hurry to reach 
the door and to get out into the air. That some one on the 
threshold took her hand and held her fast. 

“ I came back last night,” he said. “ Don’t go away fron 
me, Christine.” 

There was something in his tender, protecting, familiar voice 
that rang through Christine’s lonely heart ; she had no answer 
but tears, and he would have liked none so well. He drew her 


340 


A JUXE TWILIGHT. 


to him, and laid her head upon his shoulder, holding her hand 
against his lips and whispering his tender love. 

Poor Christine I The fight was all over, and the day of 
peace begun. 

* Sfr * 

“Christine,” said Dr. Catherwood, coming one day into the 
room where his wife sat sewing alone in a sunny, white-cur- 
tained window, with a face as bright and soft in her solitude 
as if she were hearing beautiful music or reading lovely verses 
“ Christine, I have good news to tell you of Madeline, your 
friend.” 

“ Good news !” cried Christine, starting up. “ Oh, I know ! 
she is going to be married !” 

“ For shame, Christine,” he said, with grave reproach in his 
voice, though with something not quite accordant in his eyes. 
“ For shame — as if there were no other good news could be 
told about a woman. I expected something stronger-minded 
of you. I shall punish you by not telling you a word more 
of your friend to-day.” 

“ Ah,” pleaded Christine, “ tell me. How can I wait ? I 
take it all back. She has turned composer — author; she has 
studied medicine — is going to found a hospital. Only tell 
me.” 

“ No, not a word to-day. There is no use in questioning 
me, remember.” 


THE END. 


A NEW NOVEL 

BY THE AUTHOR OF “ RUTLEDGE.” 


RICHARD VANDERMARCK 


Bv MRS. S. S. HARRIS, 


Author of " Rutledge f “ The Sutherlands f “ Louie’s Last Term,” Round- 
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EDINBURGH REVIEW “The BEST History of the Roman Republic.” 

LONDON TIMES “BY FAR THE BEST History of the Decline and Fall 

of the Roman Commonwealth.” 

» 

VOIjXJ3\a::E3 I- 

OF THE 

cif 

FROM THE EARLIEST TIME TO THE PERIOD OF ITS DECLINE. 

By Dr. THEODOR MOMMSEN. 

Translated, with the author’s sandlion and additions, by the Rev. W. P. Dickson, Regius 
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REPRINTED FROM THE REVISED LONDON EDITION. 

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* 

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author’s complete mastery of his subjeCt, the variety of his gifts and acquirements, his 
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which he inspires in every portion of his book. He is without an equal in his own sphere.” 
—Edinburgh Retneiv. 

“ A book of deepest interest.” — Dean Trench, 




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